


Phosphenes

by oliverdalstonbrowning



Series: Phosphenes [1]
Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: M/M, angst and sad things, disabled thranduil
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-23
Updated: 2015-09-18
Packaged: 2018-03-08 18:07:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 24
Words: 93,144
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3218459
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oliverdalstonbrowning/pseuds/oliverdalstonbrowning
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>noun; the stars and colours you see when you rub your eyes | Bard is a Second Grade teacher, Thranduil is the disabled, aristocratic father of his favourite student. After a brief meeting during parent-teacher interviews, Thranduil begins to invest more interest in his son's academic life.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Legolas

 

Bard is brushing down the chalkboard at the tone of the school bell. The end of a half-day seems to him a relief; the same relief his Second Grade class are feeling as they mill out of his classroom, bickering and shouting and throwing things to each other over heads and under feet, looking like maroon bats in their blazers and bowler hats. But his relief is coupled also with anguish, for it isn’t over yet. Soon, parents will be arriving, kicking up the grass in their designer shoes and turning their disgusted, aristocratic eyes to the grimy remains of the once prestigious Ashville College. Parent-teacher interviews are, in Bard’s opinion, an unnecessary grievance to his unpaid overtime. Admittedly, he sees its usefulness when it comes to improving a student’s progress in class, but otherwise understands that it is mostly an opportunity for parents to blame teachers for the poor grades of their offspring.

   Outside, the remnants of last night’s snow has melted to a grey slush and students can be seen slipping and sliding and falling over on the wet tarmac of the parking lot in their eagerness to get home. Bare and aging trees shudder in a violent wind as shiny Mercedes’ and BMW’s welcome children and buses puff and heave down the main road. Bard watches as some passengers extricate themselves from their cars, having organized their parent-teacher sessions early in order to be home in time for whatever expensive extra-curricular activity they have planned.

   He sneers at them slightly, pushing from his mind the cold eyes that would soon be upon him. He has worn his best suit for today, and even tied back his hair, but he knows it will not be enough to impress the likes of parents that send their children to Prep School.

   “Mr Bowman?”

   Bard turns quickly on his heel from the window, his heart hammering in fright. At his desk stands a young boy, not yet eight, with hair like sunshine curling sweetly around his ears. He is small, smaller than the other children, and curiously quiet. But Legolas is always the last student to leave. He enjoys telling his teacher his favourite part of the day. Bard almost wishes he could count it as participation because Legolas does not seem to find the courage to speak up in class, despite getting the answers correct on written tests.

   “Hullo, Legolas. Are your parents coming to the interview today?” Bard asks, his heart still recovering from the shock. He doesn’t know how or why, but the boy never fails to startle him with his soft voice at the end of each day.  

   Legolas nods. “Father’s coming,” he says. It irks Bard the way the children here say ‘mother and father’ instead of plain ‘mum and dad,’ but hearing it from Legolas is different. It feels natural to Bard, though that in itself rattles him too.

   The blonde boy changes the subject, as is the way of children. “I like the hieroglyphs.” Bard had just been instructing History; this term they are studying the Ancient Egyptians.

   He smiles and sits down at his desk, wanting to show that he is listening, which he is. Legolas approaches closer, his bright eyes flickering to the door. He worries about being teased by the other children. Out of respect, Bard pretends he does not see, and Legolas adds, “I like that they wrote stories on their walls.”

   “Pretty clever, isn’t it? One day you might be able to translate those stories for yourself,” Bard encourages. Legolas wants to be a historian one day. It is ambitious of a seven year-old. When Bard was seven, he wanted to be a dragon.

   Legolas nods again solemnly, his eyes on the floor. His teacher can see that he is embarrassed. He overheard Amras making fun of Legolas earlier that day, calling him a ‘teacher’s pet’ and another awful name. It had taken all of Bard’s willpower not to confront Amras, knowing it would only humiliate Legolas further. But Amras’ parents are scheduled for 2 o’clock, so he would speak up then.

   Legolas gives Bard a fleeting smile and says he will return later with his father. “I wanted him to come earlier, but he has to work.” There is sadness behind his eyes that he refuses to permit to the surface, but Bard sees it still. He has seen it before, in the eyes of his own children, when he grades papers at the dinner table or stays up late organizing lessons.

   “What does your father do?”

   Legolas is silent for a moment and a small crease sits between his dark eyebrows for a moment as he thinks. After a moment, he admits that he does not know, and leaves without saying goodbye, which is in its own right a goodbye from the child, and Bard is used to it.

   He remains at his desk. It is old, the timber cracked in several places, and the draw handles in need of replacing. He contemplates the impending hours of tiresome parents with stiff backs and loathsome glares. He has done it for years now, and still it riles him; still he hates it.

   He stands to organize himself, setting down a placard with his name on it and pulling out the stacks of filed papers of all his students from the bottom draw. It’s going to be a long afternoon.

   After two hours there is a break and Bard calls his daughter.

   “Hiya, Da. How are the interviews going?” she answers. Her voice is warm like bronze and exactly what Bard needs to hear. He closes his eyes, rubbing the rough five o’clock shadow on his chin, wishing he’d had the sense to shave. He is getting more forgetful in his slowly middling age. Or maybe he is just forgetful, damn his age.

   “Savagely slow. I’m afraid I won’t be home for dinner,” he replies lowly, digging a nail into one of the cracks in his desk. He feels guilty when he is not home when he ought to be.

   “That’s okay,” Sigrid assures, though Bard knows that it isn’t. “We're making lasagne; I’ll leave you some on the stovetop.”

   “You’re an angel,”

   “Don’t let the posh folk get you dow – oh, Hell! I have to go. Bain’s burning the garlic bread.”

   And that is the end of the phone call. Bard makes himself a third cup of coffee and stares at it until the next parent knocks on his door.

   A tall man enters the classroom, handsome and almost feminine in his beauty. He is like summer and winter in equal measure, with long hair of white-gold wavering far down his back and eyes like the surface of a thousand oceans, all blue and grey and terrifying. He isn’t much taller than Bard, but there is a quality about him that makes everything seem smaller than it is. Perhaps it is the way his brown suit contrasts his eyes, or the way his cane alights the air with heavy _thunks_ against the floorboards. Bard cannot come to terms with it, but he understands enough to know he feels tragically intimidated. _This must be Legolas’ father_.

   Sure enough, Legolas is behind the man, and Bard notes at how alike they are. Legolas is almost a spitting image of his father, but his face is slightly rounder, his brow higher.

   Bard recovers his manners as best he can and raises himself from his chair, feeling distinctly ruffled. The presence of the other man leaves him unusually self-conscious and he is trying not to be caught staring.

   “You must be Legolas’ father. I’m Bard.”

   He half-expects the man to refuse his handshake; Bard has offered the right hand, but it seems it will not be accepted unless it is his left. He changes hands apologetically, though silently bitter for the aristocrat’s attachment to his cane. His skin is cold and warm at the same time, the handshake stiff. Their eyes meet, and Bard notices that the man may not necessarily be aloof or conceited, but rather just very tired. There are dark circles above his cheekbones and he seems slightly disinterested in the affairs of his son’s academic achievements, which Bard hopes is not truly the case.

   “Thranduil,” comes the response, and they all sit down, Legolas curling his small legs under himself in the large office chair.

   There is a moment of uneasy silence and it lingers in Bard’s fingers as his pulls Legolas’ file towards him. There is a note taped to it, a messy scrawl that says; _don’t piss off the father – he gives money to the school!_ Bard silently curses the Headmaster, crumpling the note into a tiny ball. _The bastard probably takes half the donation for himself_.

   Thranduil sits rigidly in the chair, clearly uncomfortable and in no mood to be kept waiting. He flickers his gaze to his son, and Legolas gives him a reassuring smile. Thranduil’s eyes seek the ceiling briefly with irritation and Bard decides not to notice, the lump in his throat catching as he skims Legolas’ grades and the comments he has written, aware that Thranduil is now watching him.  His eyes are everywhere.

   “Legolas has been doing very well for his second year,” Bard begins, trying to steady his shaking hands. “He gets top marks in all his subjects, except perhaps English; he is falling behind quite a bit there.”

   Bard pauses so that Thranduil may give an appropriate reaction. He glares down at Legolas, blue eyes harsh and unforgiving. But Legolas merely shrugs, grinning. To Bard’s surprise, Thranduil allows himself a fleeting smirk, the corners of his mouth pulled tight for just a second, clearly amused by his son’s lack of remorse.

   “We will work on that,” he says coolly, his voice like silver and honey. Bard waits for him to say more, but he doesn’t. Legolas sighs and mumbles something Bard does not hear, but Thranduil smiles again. His eyes trace back to Bard, as though his attention cannot be spared by anything else. It makes Bard uneasy and he does not dare to reach for his coffee should he knock it over.

   “There is also the matter of contribution; he doesn’t participate in class very much. He seems to lack the ability to raise his hand,” Bard presses on, attempting a joke. It does not result in laughter. He is slightly out his depth, he realizes, because at this point the parent or guardian of the student would be lashing out at him already, demanding an explanation as to why their child is failing a subject. Thranduil offers Bard no such demoralization, and he is at a loss as to what else to say. “I’m sure he knows the answers because his tests always receive full marks.”

   “How strange. Legolas is quite well-spoken at home. Almost to a fault – some days, the real challenge is getting him to be quiet,” relays Thranduil, another humoured expression threatening to break his handsome composure. It seems the only person he thinks is funny is himself.

   Bard allows himself a brief smile, and then looks to Legolas bravely. “Well, I should like to see some improvement over the next few weeks. I have given you leniency this year, but I will start calling upon you in class if this does not change.”

   He hopes he has not spoken out of turn. He notices Thranduil raise an eyebrow delicately with surprise, as though no one had ever spoken to his son that way before. Bard doubts anyone ever has, even Thranduil himself, and this makes Bard’s stomach knot anxiously, the note from the Headmaster weighing on his mind. He cannot help but be firm with children when they do not meet requirements; with three kids of his own, instant compliance hardly comes naturally to him.

   But Thranduil does not offer his opinion. His eyebrows resume their usual position, any thought of yelling at Bard forgotten.

   Bard clears his throat awkwardly against the silence. “There is otherwise nothing else. Legolas is a fine student, and I’m very happy to have him in my class. Is there anything else you wished to discuss with me? Anything you wish to ask?”

   Thranduil cocks his head to the side ever-so slightly, eyes gently watching the floor as he thinks. Bard wonders if this man even blinks. His eyes are so blue they seem to repel dryness or basic human responses. Perhaps he isn’t human. It would come as no surprise.

   Bard does his best not to hate him, but it’s proving difficult at best. _What is with this guy? Why doesn’t he say anything? Why isn’t he angry or contemptuous?_

   “No, I haven’t any questions,” Thranduil finally replies, his eyes meeting Bard’s again. Bard wishes he wouldn’t do that. “Legolas does his homework and does not get into trouble; I could not complain even if I wanted to.”

   It is almost as though he knows what other parents are like. And while he could easily be the same way, he is not. Bard doesn’t rightly understand the dislike he has for Thranduil. Perhaps it is not so directly hatred, but it makes Bard’s heart surge and his stomach twist and it feels wrong, so for now pins it down to distaste.

   “Legolas requested I meet his favourite teacher, so I was pleased to come and oblige,” Thranduil explains, standing up. He takes his cane from where it is resting against the desk, again with his right hand. It has a knobbed handle of silver, engraved with fine, intricate patterns of flora and its shaft is of a dark redwood. Bard wants to think it pretentious and unnecessary, but he notes the way Thranduil leans on it gently, indicating its use as practical rather than just show.

   “I am glad to have met you. Here is my phone number and email, should you need to contact to me.” Bard is reluctant to give it, but will get into trouble if he doesn’t.

   Thranduil takes the card graciously between two long fingers. His nails are perfectly manicured, the skin smooth and unblemished. Bard’s hands are ink-stained and wide and he stuffs them into his pockets after they shake hands in farewell, Bard ensuring to use his left, not right.

  There is a moment of stillness as Thranduil looks at Bard once more, his eyes piercing every discrepancy, every detail. He flashes a smile and retreats, his long hair tousled momentarily in the draft and Legolas at his heels, waving goodbye to his favourite teacher.

   Bard sinks back into his chair, listening to the routine _thunk, thunk, thunk_ of Thranduil’s cane. He feels empty and tired and something close to the human embodiment of absolute shite.

  

  

 

 

 


	2. Books

On the way home from Ashville, Thranduil listens to his son talk about Bard; well, he pretends to. They sit in the back of a black sedan – Thranduil does not drive. Legolas is beside him talking of how clever Mr Bowman is and how neat his handwriting is. Thranduil’s mind is on other matters, however, though not of an entirely different nature. Perhaps he is not thinking of the exact curve of Bard’s G’s, but rather the curve of his jawline, and a peek at his tattoo which Thranduil had enjoyed, hiding beneath his shirt at the wrist. He had lovely wrists.

   Legolas prattles on about Ancient Egyptians now, his attention span fleeting and tiresome for his thoughts are too fast and his words too slow. The Jaguar trundles down the quiet streets and roads of North Yorkshire, passing white fields and tall houses and children taking pleasure in the snow before dusk arrives and warm dinners call them home. Thranduil looks out the window but scarcely pays any mind to the scenery. It has been a long day and he is tired. He thinks of easy things like the book he is currently reading and the leftover pasta in the fridge and the way Bard brushed his hair out of his eyes many times during the interview. Easy things.

   “Father?”

   “Mmm?”

   “Are you listening?”

   Thranduil very casually leans his head against the tinted car window, closing his eyes. He begins to snore with exaggeration and Legolas exclaims at him in mock dismay, unappreciative of this jibe, banging small fists against his arm. But it is Thranduil’s left arm, and the sudden impact causes him to cry out in pain as it spasms for a moment and then cramps. Legolas stops, blue eyes wide with horror when he realizes what he has done.

   “I’m sorry,” he whispers, tears choking him, threatening to break at the surface of his words.

  Thranduil clutches his arm gingerly, though he does not feel it completely. He felt the tremor of Legolas’ fists and now his arm is stiff and aching dully at the elbow, causing his head to spin nauseatingly. He does not scold Legolas; it is no fault of a child to be spirited and careless. He reaches out and strokes a large hand across his son’s face, wiping at a stray tear. He smiles.

   “It is all right; there is no harm done,” he says tenderly, his voice like silk to sooth Legolas’ worries.

   “But your arm,” Legolas contends, sniffling in his seat. The car rises over a speed hump. “Did I hurt it?”

   Thranduil shakes his head firmly. “You can’t hurt me; I’m your ada! I’m too strong.”

   Legolas shoots him a sceptical look. There is wisdom in his eyes far beyond his years. “Father, you’re a delicate flower. Even Galion thinks so.”

   Thranduil eyes Galion through the rear view mirror and his glare is met with a deep chuckle from the driver’s seat.

   “Well, Galion likes a joke, but I am actually very strong,” Thranduil objects, though both he and Legolas know this is not true. Perhaps he is strong when certain implications are put into perspective. He is not as strong as most abled men, certainly, but that does not make him weak.

   Legolas chooses to play along regardless. “Well, maybe you’re strong in different ways,” he muses. “Like in your brain. Your brain is strong.”

   “ _My brain is strong_ ,” Thranduil repeats quietly, laughing lightly. He is never quite prepared for the strange notions his son declares, but it is always a blessing to hear them.

   They arrive home not long after this. Thranduil and Legolas live in Burn Bridge, in Hill Foot Lane, where the houses are grand yet modest – if a manor can be called modest – and the driveways narrow and dusty and overgrown with trees and shrubs, as if to hide the nasty secrets of the people living behind them. The neighbours here have long necks and suspicious eyes and too many purely bred pets.

   Thranduil, on the other hand, keeps his driveway neat and presentable with Galion’s unwavering assistance and owns a goat called Archimedes and often receives written complaints about its bleating.

   The car is parked to the far right of the manor. Thranduil takes his cane and uses it to support his walk to the door. It is harder in winter; the cold chills his bones and his left side becomes more rigid in the night and out of the warmth. He leans upon the cane heavily, unconsciously, but still with great need. Legolas runs ahead to the door, eager to enter where the heating has powered on through the day. They abandon coats and hats and scarves to the pegs by the door and Legolas retreats upstairs to his bedroom.

   Inside, the walls are soft and white, gentle with the yellow light of the small chandeliers. Adorning the wall following the stairs are paintings and pictures of people. There is the portrait of an elderly man, becoming and severe, clearly Thranduil’s father in all but eyes and chin. Next to him is a family portrait, Thranduil standing tall and smiling behind a seated woman with a heart-shaped face, her hair like firelight and her skin like ivory. She holds a baby in her lap; Legolas when he was a few months short of his first year. Beside this is Legolas when he is five, and then are no other recent family pictures. There are few others upon the fireplace mantel in Thranduil’s study, but he invests otherwise in artwork and wallpaper, unable to face parts of his life on the walls of his home.

   He retires to his study upstairs, using the staircase bannister as a brace rather than his cane. He dismisses Galion early for there is no need of him. The butler lives in the next town over, barely a few miles away. Thranduil hired him only as a carer; to keep clean the manor and be his chauffer. But Galion is prone to staying late some nights, enjoying meals with the family and being a good friend to Thranduil. He isn’t of great age – in his fifties perhaps – with dark brown hair still thick and young, and an odd sense of humour. Thranduil thinks it bitterly ironic that a man almost twice his age is taking care of him.

   He calls upon Legolas on his way to the study. His son is half undressed, trying to get his head through the armhole of a sweater. Thranduil helps him, though it is still a struggle because his left arm remains cramped and unyielding, like a betrayal of his own body. But they succeed, and Legolas requests a piggy-back ride.

   Thranduil’s heart drops, profoundly and sorely. “You know I cannot, Legolas,” is all he manages. Legolas nods sadly and they walk to the farthest room instead.

   Thranduil’s study is more a library than it is an office. There are three walls of bookshelves and precious little space for any more books. The light from the window shines against them and some have tanned in the sun from summers past while others, fresh and new, collect dust and remain unread. Thranduil tries to read often and well, but it is difficult when he is brings home four times as many books as he reads.

   He once considered spending a day or two to organize his shelves, for such a collection ought to have a structure. But time pressed on and more books were obtained and Thranduil was quicker to memorize where everything already was than establish an order.

   “Pick a book, Legolas,” he says, leaning against the desk by the window.

   “Why?”

   “Because Bar – Mr Bowman wants your English grade to improve.” Thranduil shakes himself of the thought of Bard. He doesn’t quite comprehend his interest in the teacher, but he knows better than to let it fester in the back of his mind with suppression. It is better it come and be as it is where it chooses than to let it wallow and grow poorly where it ought not to be.

   “How is _reading_ supposed to help?” Legolas asks grumpily, staring at the hundreds of shelves above him and looking awfully small.

   “Because, believe it or not, these books are written in English, and some creative discipline should prove to be good mental exercise,” replies Thranduil, hiding a smile behind a yawn.

   “Can’t I just have a tutor? All the other kids do.”

   Thranduil makes a face, the idea of someone tutoring his son unpleasant to him. He knows it would be beneficial, as it is for the other children Legolas learns with, but Thranduil prefers his own teaching methods before that of others. At least, he wants to test them for he does not wish for his son to be separate from him. He knows of many sons and daughters who grow distance from their parents, favouring tutors and nannies and teachers. Legolas is all Thranduil has left, and he will not lose him to anyone extra-curricular.

   “I would like you to choose a book,” he insists simply.

   “But these are all chapter books! I’ve never read a chapter book.” Legolas is being cheeky, but Thranduil has the patience for it.

   “Perhaps I will help you choose; and we can read it together?” Thranduil proposes a compromise. He doesn’t understand his son’s aversion to reading, but it is something he strongly feels should change. Not with force but with… firm persuasion.

   After many minutes of head-shaking and face-pulling at dozens of options, Legolas accepts _Harry Potter_ , feeling it is about time he discovered what all the fuss is about. Thranduil’s copy is hardcover, new and untouched, red and old-looking, as it is meant to, with the title engraved only on the spine in gold lettering. All his books are hard cover, designed to look antique and bound and beautiful. At the bottom of the spine is printed a small leaf, for _Greenleaf Books._

   They read until it is too dark to see by natural light. Legolas sits on his father’s lap and Thranduil helps him when he falters, which is often. Afterwards, Legolas escapes outside to the barn to pester and to play with Archimedes and Thranduil goes to the kitchen to make dinner. But he hasn’t done the grocery shopping and all that is left to cook is cauliflower and brown rice and lentils. And the pasta from two nights ago. He sends out for pizza and they eat it by the fire in the drawing room, kept crackling and hot with letters of grievance about the goat. Legolas watches his favourite cartoon.

   The night eases into shadow and clouds and outside it begins to snow, as promised by the news. Archimedes is let into the sun room to stay the cold and Legolas goes to bed at nine. Thranduil walks upstairs with him and they read one more chapter of _Harry Potter._ He brushes Legolas’ hair, tugging out the knots and dirt from the day’s adventures. Legolas brushes Thranduil’s, too, fondly and with long strokes until he laughs and buries himself in a veil of it.

   “Why is your hair so long?” he asks.

   Thranduil grins and lies back on the single bed, looking up at his son kindly. “When I was a teenager, the boys in my class would tease me about looking like a girl. I had not yet grown into myself as they had and there was too much of your grandmother in me. So, instead of cutting my hair as they would have liked me to, I grew it long.”

   Legolas rests his chin on his father’s chest, his small face puzzled. “But didn’t you want them to stop laughing at you?”

   “I was not trouble by it. I was the way I chose to be, and I didn’t think I ought to apologise for it. And besides, I got my revenge on them.”

   “Oh? How? Did you fight them?”

   Thranduil chuckles, Legolas’ head bouncing at the rising of his chest. “No, I married your mother.”

   “Oh.” There is silence, and then; “She was very beautiful, wasn’t she?”

   Thranduil does not speak for a moment. He doesn’t speak often of his late wife, despite the long years now passed since her death. Perhaps it still pains him, or perhaps it is just habit.

   “I suppose she was very beautiful,” he finally says. “But I didn’t love her because of it.”

   “Then why did you love her?”

   Thranduil’s brow furrows and his heart skips a beat painfully, a sorrow in his chest and lungs and throat that cannot be lifted. He remembers now that it _is_ out of habit that he does not speak of his wife, but it is a broken man’s habit; a lonely habit of heartache and the desperation to feel anything else but grief.

   “Go to sleep, now,” he says, rising from the bed. He sets the hairbrush on Legolas’ dresser alongside the book. He is suddenly burdened with fatigue, as though it has all weighed down on him at once.

   “Okay. Goodnight, father,” Legolas says, knowing better than to argue. He burrows himself beneath the covers and Thranduil tucks him in at the sides, making sure no air will get in, just as Legolas likes. He kisses his son goodnight and takes his cane from beside the door. 

   “Goodnight,”

   Thranduil retires to bed as well. He does not read his book and he does not think of his wife, despite resting his head in the same bed she had once slept in with him. Thinking of her does not make him sad anymore, it just makes him tired, and if he thinks of her any more tonight, he will not be able to wake on time in the morning.

   He dwells instead on other things. Safe things like grocery shopping and Legolas’ grades. His last thought before falling asleep is that he understands why Bard is his son’s favourite teacher.

_

In the morning, Galion returns to drive Thranduil and Legolas to school and to work. There is a rush in the orange and white of the early day as Legolas refused to get out of bed, and Thranduil slept in because he thought of his wife. Or of Bard? He cannot recall. He makes a game of Legolas’ breakfast called “find something edible and put it in your pocket,” and they hurry out the door with barely minutes to spare before Legolas is late for school.

   In the car on the way there, Thranduil opens his phone and saves Bard’s number to his contacts. Legolas peels a banana peacefully beside him, his hair still messy from sleep and childish dreams, his eyes drooping. When he eats the fruit, he falls asleep on his father’s shoulder. Thranduil’s left side did not trouble him in the night, but still he hopes it does not spasm and frighten awake his son

   “I’ll be making a visit to the school before the meeting, so park when we arrive,” he says to Galion.

   He looks back down at Bard’s phone number. He wonders if he ought to speak with the teacher about Legolas’ English grades and ask about what he can do to help improve them. He probably could have asked the previous day, but Thranduil had struggled with words, too awed by the other man to string together a proper sentence.

   They arrive at the school with five minutes of grace. Legolas is woken gently and he says goodbye by running to his form class to be marked for attendance. Thranduil sits in the car until well after the bell tolls for first period. He figures he might as well make a deposit while he is here, and so signs a cheque for the headmaster, his signature an elegant flourish at the bottom. The school purchases many of their textbooks from Thranduil, so he feels no qualm in donating his time and money. He attended the school in his youth,and wishes to see it back to its former glory, and for his son to receive the best education possible. He is not sure of the possibility of this with such a headmaster at the helm, but he hopes for the best.

   He tells Galion to wait in the car, promising his return with coffee from the teacher’s lounge (it is good coffee). It is unforgivably cold today, the wind blistering and biting and snarling like a hungry dog. Thranduil tightens the grip on his coat and his cane and marches up to the school, doing his best to suppress any eagerness of potentially seeing Bard, and failing. He just wants to be sure that the man is as real as Thranduil imagines him to be.

   He makes his way to the office on the other side of the parking lot, hastening from the cold despite his leg, which has decided to stiffen at a most inconvenient time, as usual, though it thankfully does not cause him discomfort. The office lady, whose name is Hilda, sees Thranduil approach and she runs to get the door for him, grinning widely at his entrance. This irritates him, but he is courteous enough to thank her. He is perfectly capable of opening the door on his own.

   “You’re here to see the headmaster?” she inquires, returning to her desk and pushing forward a sign-in form.

   Thranduil goes to nod, but finds he is not able to quickly do so and is forced to speak his affirmation. He signs the log, taking two spaces with his signature, and is permitted through the door on the left where the headmaster of the school keeps his office.

   He is not a pleasant man; Thranduil takes no joy in dealing with him. Rude and arrogant, he has disgustingly little respect for the school and its students and staff. Thranduil always does business with him quickly and to the point, trying not to think of where his money truly goes.

   “Mr Oropherion! A pleasure, as always,”

   Thranduil manages a fleeting smile, unable to bring himself to be anything except polite and icy.

   “How’s business?”

   “The same,”

   “No doubt Bloomsbury are giving you a hard time?”

   Thranduil does not know where he heard this from, and so decides to deny it, though it is irksomely true.

   “I have not found that to be the case,”

   His reply is met with hush and the headmaster sits anxiously in his high-backed chair, the size of him weighing it down. He scratches at the bald spot on his head. His orange beard is patchy too. Thranduil is repulsed to look at him for too long.

   He retrieves the cheque from his jacket pocket and sees the headmaster’s eyes glint with greediness.

   “The usual sum. Do not spend it all in one place,”

   Thranduil takes his leave, unwilling to say more should it be the wrong thing. He is not good at holding his tongue and so finds it better to end a conversation before it turns sour. He excuses himself and walks across the office entrance and down a narrow hallway to the teacher’s lounge, shivering at the vileness of the headmaster. It makes his skin crawl.

   The teacher’s lounge is quaint and cosy and, really, what a teacher’s lounge ought to look like. The carpet is red, or was once red and now is faded from sun and use and dirty shoes. The couches are worn, too, and have holes in some places, while the stuffing comes out entirely in others. Thranduil rather enjoys its appearance, for it is a refreshing untidiness.  

   He thinks at first that it is empty of faculty and is about to go to the coffee machine when he hears it whirr and splutter and behind the fridge he spots a man, his long black hair tied back into a bun. He is tall, and would be taller if he weren’t hunched over with lethargy and cold, and is wearing quite possibly the ugliest jumper Thranduil has ever seen.

   Bard turns around at the sound of Thranduil’s cane against the carpet, which is so thin that the timber beneath is what really gives him away. He halts mid-stride and their eyes meet, Bard clutching a mug of coffee, dark circles around his eyes indicating his reluctance towards early mornings.

   Thranduil straightens himself slightly, assuming his manners as best he can, though his heart is like a drum against his ribs, its rhythm increasing and spurring.

   “Good morning,” he manages.

   “Morning,” Bard replies. Thranduil can see that Bard was not expecting a parent to be about during school hours, especially in the teacher’s lounge, but he hides his surprise well.

   The silence hovers, thick and oppressive. Neither man moves from his spot, though Bard shuffles on his feet for a moment, clearing his throat a few times and tugging as his jumper.

   _God, it’s so ugly._

   “Would you like coffee?”

   Thranduil finds himself speechless, which for even a moment is a rare occurrence for him. He nods instead, blessed to find himself able to this time, and takes a few tentative steps forward. “Two cups, please,” he finally spits out.

   “For your wife?”

   Thranduil’s heart thumps spitefully. It is as though blood clogs his throat.

   “My driver,”

   He feels like his response is worse than the question, for he sees something shift behind Bard’s eyes; vicious humour, perhaps? Or just distaste? No doubt Bard thinks it pretentious that Thranduil has a driver at all. He does not blame Bard if this is the case, but wishes his reaction was different to that of other people’s; those who assess him before they understand him. He acknowledges that his exterior is harsh and displeasing, but he has faced his hardships. There is a reason he does not drive, and thinks it rather obvious.

   He walks closer, until he is next to the coffee machine, watching the dark liquid stream into a Styrofoam cup. Bard learns casually against the counter and Thranduil would aspire to do the same if it weren’t for his left side. Instead he resorts to his typical unyielding posture, holding his cane in front of him.

   “I mean to ask you something,” he says, remembering Legolas, coat and scarf flapping behind him as he had sprinted to class.

   Bard looks up, his dark eyes suspicious, yet curious. They are soft, at the edges, and hold calming warmth that requires Thranduil to seek other aspects of the man for fear of being distracted. He focuses between Bard’s eyebrows, forcing his own eyes not to wander.

   “You mentioned Legolas’ English grades need improving; how would you suggest accomplishing this?” he requests.

   Bard ponders this for a moment, passing the first cup of coffee to Thranduil and starting another. The smell of coffee beans engulfs the room and Thranduil preoccupies his thoughts by fetching the milk from the counter. And sugar – two for Galion. He stirs two sugars into the cup, waiting for Bard’s response, trying not to notice the spicy scent of his cologne. The man may dress like a blindfolded child, but his cologne preference is something thrilling. It makes Thranduil’s stomach twist.

   “I would encourage him to read more, and to write. Have him keep a journal or write stories or discuss things on paper, just as practice. His problem is that he lacks focus in the subject; he cannot keep up with the rest of the class. And encouragement to ask questions if he needs help with anything; I think he is too shy to ask for my help,”

   Bard hands Thranduil the second cup, and then takes a sip from his own. It smells strong and has no milk and he does not grimace when he drinks it. _That is a teacher’s coffee._

   “Thank you. I had him choose a book to read yesterday, but I will propose writing as well,” Thranduil says amiably, pouring milk into the two cups.

   “What book did he choose?”

   “Harry Potter,”

   Bard smirks, and Thranduil notices sharp teeth. This disorients his thinking.

   “Excuse me,” he stammers suddenly, though he succeeds in making it sound steady. He takes the two cups of coffee with one hand, a skill he has long mastered. “I have a meeting at ten.”

   Bard nods. “What is it you do, if I may ask?”

   Thranduil blinks for a moment, still trying to recover himself. His heart is seizing in his chest at the look Bard is giving him. It is unnervingly intense and Thranduil cannot tear his eyes away.

   “I am a book publisher; Greenleaf Books.”

   “Oh,” is all Bard conveys, though it tells Thranduil a lot. It is many people’s answer when he relays his profession to them. His books are famous, without question, but there seems to be certain scepticism surrounding them, which he is yet to fully understand. “Well, have fun at your… meeting.”

   Thranduil manages a careful incline of his head before departing. He exhales as soon as he leaves the lounge, only then aware that he had been holding his breath. His vision blurs abruptly, black dots creeping at the periphery. He waits until it passes before walking again.

   _Curse that teacher. And his awful jumper._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for your lovely reviews! This chapter is dedicated to all the first readers, who have encouraged my writing. And the reference to Legolas reading Harry Potter is for the people who said Thranduil and his cane reminded them of Lucius Malfoy, which left a sour taste in my mouth x


	3. Tutoring

Snow has fallen generously across Northern England in the past week. A blanket of white and grey and blue covets Ashville College, but not enough for classes to be cancelled. Children and students keep hats and scarves on during lessons and the gas bill rises. At one point it had been so cold, Bard huddled his students around the heater and put on a movie for them, unable to bear more than the mindless humour of cartoons.

   But the snow falters at long last after the weekend and the sun comes out with fleeting gestures of warmth, enough to turn the snow to slush as it is trodden into the dirt by boots and cars.

   Bard is packing up at the end of a long and dreary Monday. He drains the last of his coffee and rubs his eyes hard, keen to be home in its well-known comforts and with his family.

   “Mr Bowman?”

   Bard blinks his eyes open, though at first he does not see anything. His vision is unfocused and red and green at the edges, like a million tiny stars at the corners of the world.

   Legolas is at his desk, as he usually is at the end of the day. But the expression on his face is different to what Bard is accustomed to. He seems nervous, and is chewing on his thumbnail, his eyes dancing to the door where Bard’s students have already departed to their cars and buses and homes.

   “What’s up, Legolas?” Bard’s eyesight gradually returns to him, though still he is dizzy.

   “Well, um, my father is here,” Legolas says. “He wants to speak with you.”

   _For fucks’ sake._

   Bard has already had his fair share of interactions with Thranduil Oropherion. More than he cares to have in his entire lifetime. In the week following the parent-teacher interview, Thranduil had visited the school no less than four times, each of which he had bumped into Bard, criticising his sweaters and making coffee in the teacher’s lounge. Frankly, he has had enough of the pretentious man; enough of his haughty posture and cold eyes and expensive suits. Their conversations had been awkward and still, as though they were both tip-toeing around something bigger, but neither of them knowing what that bigger thing was.

   Bard looks down at Legolas, attempting a peaceful expression, though it proves immensely difficult. Legolas smiles and then runs to the door, disappearing from sight for only a moment. When he returns, he says his father is coming.

   And Bard can hear him; the slow _thunk, thunk, thunk_ of that accursed cane as Thranduil approaches the classroom. Bard dislikes how familiar he is with it already. When Thranduil enters, it seems he brings with him the cold of the wind outside and everything shrinks and shrivels and Bard represses a shiver. He does not get used to this, even for a sixth time. Every time he sees Thranduil, he abandons his loathing and feels instead very intimidated. The way Thranduil looks down upon everything is menacing and dry. Bard wishes he wasn’t wearing the jumper that he was. Why on earth did he feel obliged to wear what Sigrid knitted him? _Why, why, why?_

   But for the first time, Bard notices Thranduil’s real and true dependence upon that cane. Since their second meeting, Bard has suspected it is genuinely needed, judging by the way Thranduil limps slightly without it and by the way he instinctively reaches for it. But today he leans upon it severely, losing at least three inches of his substantial height.

   “Good afternoon,” he greets.

   “Hi,” returns Bard, feeling slightly breathless. His heart sinks to his stomach uncomfortably, and he feels almost sorry for the other man, though he fights the emotion. He offers him a chair, but it is graciously refused.

   “I come to ask you a favour,” Thranduil continues. His penetrating eyes are on Bard, haunting his every movement.

   “Oh?”

   “Legolas would like a tutor to help with his English, and as I don’t feel comfortable hiring a stranger, I would like to offer you the job,”

   Bard is stunned into silence. This must be a joke. “Me? Why me?” he manages to splutter.

   Thranduil looks at him, eyes narrow and swift in response, as if to make up for his cautious verbal communication. “You’re Legolas’ favourite teacher.” He says this with finality, as though it is a justified answer, which Bard does not think so. He requires more, but it seems he won’t be getting it.

   “Look, I really don’t have the time–”

   Thranduil cuts him off with a quick hand gesture. “There would be no need for it to be after school. One or two lunch times a week would suffice.”

   It’s almost as if Bard has no say in the matter, and this infuriates him. Regardless of financial status, no man has the right to command another without reason. Bard is about to argue, but stops himself mid-thought. One or two lunch times is not much by way of inconvenience, and he would be getting paid for it…

   “What of compensation?” he asks.

   Thranduil’s lips tug at a smirk, as though this is a game he enjoys immensely. The dealings of money must be amusing to the rich. “What is your price?”

   Maybe it is the way Thranduil says it, or the way his eyes flicker and linger in places Bard does not care to admit to. Whatever it is, Bard feels even more perturbed in the other man’s presence, his stomach doing somersaults and his heart hammering in his chest.

   “Fifty?”

   “Done,”

   “Yay!” Legolas throws his hands up. Bard has never seen a child so excited to be tutored.

   “What days suit you?”

   Bard thinks for a moment, though it is no easy task. The air is thick and suffocating with tension, but of what kind he cannot decipher. “Wednesdays and Fridays,” he says.

   Thranduil puts his hand into the inner pocket of his suit, which today is pinstriped and a rich navy blue. Bard tries not to notice how well it fits him, emphasizing his tall and handsome frame. He retrieves a small card and places it very deliberately on the desk, his hand hovering for a second, long enough for Bard to ponder at how graceful and soft they must be.

   “My number,” Thranduil clarifies.

   He turns to leave, his cane hard against the timber of the classroom. Legolas is quick to his father’s side. He waves goodbye to Bard, grinning, and the teacher musters only a pathetic flap of his hand, sinking into his chair in awe. He doesn’t know what he has just taken part in, but it feels likely a great deal more than just a tutoring arrangement.

-

Bard drives home that afternoon in a daze, unsure if he hates Thranduil more or less after that encounter. He supposes he better get used to it, for there is no doubt in his mind that he’ll be seeing more of the man from now on, whether he likes he or not. Apparently the first five run-ins had not been sufficient.

   _Pretentious twat._

   Bard lives in Spofforth, which is like a country town but without the sheep and cattle. His home is average-sized and is made of bricks and it has an average-sized garden that is not well-kept. The snow clings to angry rose bushes and the driveway is mostly snow, with two long grooves where the car wheels go. It is not much to look at, Bard admits, but it is home nonetheless and it is here that he stays the warmest and smiles the most and loves his three children best. Once upon a time, he had loved here is wife also.

   _“Da, da, da, da, da!”_

   Tilda, who is eleven, is running over to him from the kitchen when Bard enters the house. It is mercifully heated and he can smell cooking, a common after-school habit of his children. Grinning, he picks her up mid-jump and twirls her and gives her a rough kiss. She complains that he is scratchy and he puts her down.

   “Guess what I did today?!”

   Bard takes off his coat and scarf and gloves, thinking hard. “Get an A on your test? Finish your painting? Fight some boys?”

   “I saved next door’s kitten from a tree!”

   “Did you really? I’m guessing that’s where you got the graze on your elbow?”

   Tilda shakes her head, twisting her arm to look at the nasty cut for a moment. “No, that was from fighting boys.”

   Bard laughs and allows himself to be dragged by the hand into the kitchen. He sits down at the front bench and rests his forehead on its cool surface, feeling fatigue like a hostile pressure against his eyes and shoulders.

   “What’s the matter, da?” Sigrid’s voice greets him from the fridge.

   Her father sighs again. “I have been hired as a tutor,” he replies morosely.

   “A tutor? For one of those snobby brats? You can’t be serious?” Bain objects from the stove as he tries to flip the omelette sizzling in the pan.

   Bard lifts his head, pushing back his hair, resisting the temptation to seize it out of grief. “Sort of. I’ve been asked to tutor Legolas in English during lunchtimes twice a week,” he explains. “I was asked _in person_.”

   “Isn’t Legolas the one with the really good-looking dad?” Sigrid prods. Bard’s children know much of Legolas, as Bard often comes home with stories about the boy, who never ceases to provide him with amusement or give him cause to worry.

   “You think he’s good-looking?” Bard counters, raising an eyebrow. He is glad not to be alone in this discovery, though he would take this self-confession to his grave.

   She blushes softly, embarrassed. “Well… yeah. I mean, it’s not like anyone can go ‘round denying it.”

   _Fair enough_.

   “Who are you talking about?” Tilda inquires, climbing into the chair next her father and accepting the half-burned omelette from Bain, whose face is flushed from the temperateness of the stove. His hair is tied back into a stub of a ponytail, a statement he is trying to copy from his father, though with little success.

   “You know the man who publishes the old-fashioned books? Da has to tutor his son,” Sigrid tells her little sister.

   “You know of Greenleaf Books?” says Bard.

   Sigrid gives him an exasperated look. “Da, _everyone_ knows about Mr Oropherion’s books. They’re absolutely marvellous. I wish I could afford them.”

   Bard makes an almost disgusted face and goes to make himself some tea. It is too much, he thinks, to be a teacher and deal with the stiff-backed parents of his students. And Thranduil Oropherion is just an additional burden to his plight, altogether separate from other parents and guardians and nannies. Like a puppy begging for him to throw a bone.

   Bard wonders if maybe he should…

   No, he hates the man. He will have to force a significant wedge of distance between him and Thranduil, else there will be bloodshed, or worse.

   Bard spends the night marking papers and watching a film with Tilda, who falls asleep halfway through. It is a long-running tradition of his family to take Monday’s as they come. There are no quarrels over the dinner table and there are no obligations to homework unless necessary. It is quiet and comfortable. Bain emerges from his room after a while for another helping of dinner and to put Tilda to bed and watch the second half of the film, and Sigrid paints her nails despite her school dress code and helps Bard with correcting work while she waits for each coat of varnish to dry. She teases Bain about his hair and he about her nose.

   Bard takes a deep and heartfelt pride in his family. They are weary and they are careful and they are broken in places, but in the broken places they are strong and smart and brave. And most nights, when he retires to his bed alone, he thinks of how proud his wife would be if she could see her children now.

-

   Wednesday lunchtime comes too quickly for Bard’s liking. He sits in the classroom, staring down at the business card Thranduil had left there two days previously. He has not touched it nor stored the digits in his phone, yet still it nags him, the dangerous parts of his bravery eager to find out what would happened if he calls.

   He tucks it into his pocket when he hears a knock on the door. Despite his inherent reluctance, Bard is glad to be tutoring Legolas; it will be a good chance for the boy to learn more and perhaps grow to be more confident in class. Bard doesn’t rightly understand his attachment to Thranduil’s son, but he plays along with his gut-instinct.

   Legolas enters the room carrying his backpack and eating a sandwich that looks to contain peanut-butter and lettuce. It doesn’t look very appetising, yet Legolas chews on it cheerfully, dropping himself in the seat in front of Bard’s desk.

   “Is that… lettuce… with your peanut butter?” is all Bard can say.

   Legolas looks down at his sandwich like it isn’t odd at all. He simply shrugs and says, “Father never does the grocery shopping.”

   Bard wonders what is actually wrong with that man.

   He takes a sip of his coffee and decides to begin. And it results to be a strenuous process; Legolas’ aversion to reading is far more complex than Bard anticipated. The small boy uses his fingers to underline words as he reads, and it takes them several minutes to struggle through one page. Bard was going to ask Legolas to write a paragraph of what he thinks of _Harry Potter_ so far, but he proposes another question instead.

   “Legolas, why don’t you like to read?”

   The boy looks up at his teacher, eyes so blue Bard thinks he might drown in them. “I do like to read,” Legolas objects quietly. “It’s just… hard.”

   Bard rubs his chin thoughtfully. “What’s it like for you, to read? Do the words jumble themselves sometimes?”

   Legolas nods. “Sometimes I read the same sentence over and over again.”

   Bard almost laughs at this. He does not realize how he had been so blind to it before now; the letter’s mixed up in Legolas’ papers that were too consistent to be spelling errors and the messy scrawl that refused to neaten despite how many pencil grips he was given.

   Bard continues the lesson as normal. They finish the chapter and the school bell rings. Bard’s class has art now, so he has some free time. He stares down at the business card on his desk again, afraid he might memorize the numbers, but unable to look away.

   He gets out his phone and dials before he can take a second to regret it, his heart leaping to his throat as if it is trying to escape him.

   The phone rings four times before it is answered.

   “Hello?”

   Bard’s words catch in his throat. Thranduil’s voice is easy and like honey against a spoon. And he knows it is Bard on the phone. _The bastard saved my number_.

   “It’s Bard,” he says anyway.

   “How are you?” it’s a conversation starter, not a legitimate question.

   “I just finished my first lesson with Legolas,”

   “Oh?”

   Bard pauses, his heart still catapulting itself against his ribcage with anxiety and stress and… something else he cannot name. “I think you ought to have him tested for dyslexia.”

   Thranduil says nothing for a long moment; Bard cannot even hear him breathing through the receiver. The silence strains again his ears and chest and back. Then, softly and beautifully; “Thank you.”

   The line hums, dead.

   The following day, Bard is making coffee in the teacher’s lounge before the school day begins. He had not slept well that night and it is cold and he is twitchy. He isn’t sure how he will suffer through 6 hours of 2 dozen 8 year-olds shouting and fighting and just being generally irritating, but he knows it will take a lot of coffee.

    He is about to leave when it hears the familiar _thunk_ of a cane. Thranduil is in the doorway, watching him. Today he seems different, but Bard fails to acknowledge exactly how. His suit is pressed and clean, as it always is. It is grey in colour and carrying his usual thick coat over its shoulders. His hair is tied back, away from his face, which is as striking as the day Bard first met him. But then, there, he sees; Thranduil’s eyes are masked by purple circles, darker than is typical, and there is a permanent crease between his bold eyebrows.

   “Good morning,” he hails.

   Bard just gives his head a nod, taking a drink of his coffee to stop himself from stuttering or saying something incomprehensible. He waits. Thranduil seems nervous; his eyes are on Bard, but their presence on him is fleeting and troubled rather than fixed and steady.

   “I wanted to thank you again for bringing Legolas’ problem to my attention,” he says.

   “It’s okay,” Bard returns, relaxing a little, but only a little.

   Thranduil enters the room fully, using his cane heavily for support. Bard is still curious as to why he needs it; what lies behind its use?

   “I wonder – should Legolas be tested positive – will it… affect him?”

   Bard doesn’t apprehend the question at first, but he catches on after a moment. Thranduil isn’t nervous; he is _worried_.

   Bard smiles kindly, grabbing his briefcase from the table. “It won’t. His grades are still exceptional, and they will hopefully continue to be when he proceeds to the next grade and the next. He will just need additional help when reading and writing and, depending on his symptoms, he will be able to get corrective lenses, which will improve his reading.”

   He motions for Thranduil to follow him out the door and slows his pace so that they may walk together. Thranduil appears ill-at-ease still and Bard is uncertain of how to reassure him. Many children have dyslexia; there are two in the Third Grade class alone. From his experience, it is not too difficult to manage and tolerate, and as a teacher he knows how to help students with it.

   But Bard fears it is something else entirely preying on Thranduil’s mind. He wants to ask what it is, but the bell chimes for the beginning of class and he excuses himself quickly, apologizing, for he will be late to start work. Thranduil smiles cordially and Bard leaves him at the front office, something in his eyes still distressed and sad.

   Later, Bard receives a text.

   _: It is Legolas’ birthday party this weekend. He has asked me to invite you._

   Bard grimaces. He has no plans this weekend, but he does not think he will take pleasure in using his free time to attend a child’s birthday party. And it is such an informal invitation. Thranduil is probably just pestering Bard for company. But why him?

   _I’ve known this guy for barely two weeks. What is his deal?_

But Bard cannot think of a good enough excuse, and the long-disposed note from his headmaster about Thranduil donating money to the school creeps on him, itching at a spot in his back he cannot reach. He agrees to throw a bone at last, hoping he will not regret it.

   _So much for that wedge._


	4. Invitations

It is Friday; blissful, hopeful, tranquil Friday. The snow has lessened and the sun is beaming, easing the pressure of winter as spring tries to nudge its merciful way unto the trees and grass and rooftops. Bard sits down at his desk at lunch time, his arms weighty and his feet sore. The end of another weary week is so close he can almost taste it. Taste it like it is the half teaspoon of sugar in his coffee when he can’t bear its bitterness anymore; that’s what Friday tastes like.

   Legolas is on schedule for his tutoring lesson, carrying his backpack and eating a sandwich; Bard inquires after it, curious as to what heinous filling it has this time, but Legolas just peels it open to reveal two plain pieces of bread.

   “The peanut-butter was off, so father just gave me the bread,” he tells his teacher.

   Bard makes a mental note to say something to Thranduil, or to child services. Perhaps the latter, just in case.

   He has had no communication as to whether Legolas went to a specialist or not, so Bard conducts the lesson without change. He has Legolas write him a paragraph about the beach, instructing him here and there about adjectives and nouns and why _i_ comes before _e,_ except after _c_. Legolas’ handwriting is messy, even for that of a seven year-old.

   _Almost eight_.

   Bard is dreading the birthday party this weekend despite knowing nothing more about it other than he is to attend. And why he is attending at all is still incredulous to him.

   The lesson ends after thirty-five minutes when the bell sounds. Bard praises Legolas for his good work and is about to tidy up before the rest of his students arrive when there is a knock on the door of the classroom. The sound is of brass against wood, not a hand.

   Looking up, he sees Thranduil, his cane against the open door. His gaze is fixed on Bard, though for once it does not feel quite so aggressive. It feels almost… friendly.

   No, ‘friendly’ is not the right word. Bard cannot think of what the right word might be, but it definitely surpasses a simple ‘friendly.’

   “Hey,” Bard acknowledges, regretting the casual greeting as soon as it leaves his tongue. He catches Thranduil smirk briefly, the corners of his mouth upturned, his eyes refusing to leave Bard’s.

   “I’m here to pick Legolas up early, if it is permitted,” he explains.

   He asks for permission as if it is needed. Ideally, Bard would rather have Legolas stay at school, but the word of a parent is practically law. No argument is worth losing his job over, and Bard reminds himself of this constantly.

   Legolas grins at Bard. “It’s my birthday today, so I get a half day,” he says excitedly.

   “Well, then, happy birthday!” Bard responds quickly, feeling inconvenienced. 

   “Legolas, why don’t you go to the car? I’ll be there in a moment,” Thranduil requests.

   Legolas waves goodbye to Bard and runs out the room, his lithe footsteps echoing down the hall. Thranduil comes to the desk, and Bard notices that his cane does not accompany his feet on the floor. He holds it instead at the shaft and approaches steadily, carefully, and he is taller and far statelier. It daunts Bard, the way Thranduil looks down at him with such ease, sharp eyes wary of his every movement. He can feel his heartbeat quicken and deepen in his chest and he prays that Thranduil cannot hear it too.

   He is wearing a brown suit today, a honey-gold tie at his neck and a black coat over his broad shoulders. He is so close Bard can see the gold lining the jacket. If it weren’t for the desk between them, he would have been so far out of his comfort zone that he wonders if it would have been at all possible to recover from it. He smells cologne - like sea salt and sandalwood - and does his best not to inhale it too much, though he wants to; badly.

     _I hate him._

    “I wanted to invite you formally to Legolas’ birthday party,” Thranduil says. His words are silky and Bard clings to them, hating himself more with every passing second. “I meant to yesterday morning, but you were too quickly indisposed.”

   Bard feels he ought to apologize, but forces himself not to. It was not his fault the bell had rung for class that morning and he does not understand why he is feeling guilty for it. Why this man has such an effect on him, he does not know. What he _does_ know is that he is about four seconds away from slapping that face or kissing it.

   “Where is it?” he pushes himself to be vocal.

   Thranduil reaches a hand into the pocket of his suit and takes out a thick card – an invitation. He gives it to Bard. “At our house,” he elaborates. “The address is there. Bring your… wife.”

   Before Bard can relay that he no longer has a wife, Thranduil is leaving, his hair whisking behind him in the gentle wind that flurries down the hall. Bard stares at his abruptly retreating back, the scent of the cologne lingering in the air. There is a feeling of uncleanliness in his fingertips.

   _Inviting._ Thranduil’s eyes had been _inviting._

-

    “Da, do I _have_ to go?” Bain tugs at his collar uncomfortably while Sigrid does his tie, her tongue between her teeth and her hands swatting at her older brother’s every time he moves to touch his suit. It is new and the pockets of the jacket are still sewn shut and Bain appears to have an intense loathing for it. Or perhaps it is just the entire event of tonight, where he must mingle and be polite and take out his nose ring before they arrive at the party.

   Bard brandishes the invitation. “It says to bring family, so that’s what I’m doing. Your sisters want to go, so you’re going too.”

   “I’m sixteen! I can stay at home on my own,” argues Bain before Sigrid tightens his tie to almost choking point. He scowls at her.

   Bard looks at him sparingly. “Not after last time. I won’t come home to furniture on the roof again. Besides; I don’t want to be the only one there without my family. I’m not a bachelor.”

   “But why are you so eager to prove it?” Sigrid quips, smirking. Smirking like she knows something. Something Bard would rather not admit to. Ever. At all.

   “Will you wear your mother’s necklace?” he changes the subject.

   She blinks at him, brown eyes sparkling and wide as she bites her lip. It is the sort of face she makes when she wants to cry, but knows it will do no good to.

   “Do you think I should?” 

   “It would look lovely with that dress,” Bard insists kindly. Sigrid is wearing a dress of lavender, long, laced sleeves like second skin on her arms and the skirt neatly pleated at the waist, fanning out with a petted-coat underneath. “You don’t get many opportunities to wear it.”

   Sigrid nods firmly and she goes to her father’s bedroom where there is an old wooden box on his dresser, holding the family’s most precious treasures. She retrieves a necklace from it, large and ornate and unique in its shape, crafted of the finest silver. Bard puts it on for and tells her she looks beautiful, which she does. She looks like her mother.

   “Okay, are we ready?”

   “Are you sure this is what we should be wearing, da?” Bain pesters, taking his mobile phone from the dining table. “I mean, this is a _kid’s_ party, right?”

   “Yeah, but he’s a rich kid with a rich dad. You know how these aristocrats are; they don’t know how to have a real party. Not for a child,”

   Bard hitches Tilda onto his back at her request and leads the company out the door, locking up behind them. He is nervous, of that is he certain. Nervous to be around spoiled children and money-hungry parents.

   The family pile themselves into Bard’s car. It is an old pick-up truck that might once have been a handsome blue, but is now faded and ugly and rusted around the hubcaps. Bard plans to park it around the corner and walk to Thranduil’s house.

   “Why are we even going to this?” Sigrid asks from the passenger seat as Bard starts the engine and pulls out of the driveway.

   He gives her an exasperated look, but says nothing in reply. Behind them, Bain is helping Tilda with her bracelet.

   “I mean, from what you’ve told us – and you’ve told us a lot – you _hate_ this guy. You’re always going on and on about how _irritating_ he is and how _smug_ he is and how _pretentious_ he is, and yet here _you are_ , driving to _his house_ for _his son’s_ birthday party.” Sigrid emphasizes these words very deliberately and Bard feels colour rising to his cheeks.

   “What are you trying to say?” He knows very well what she is trying to say.

   “Da, I think you’ve got a bit of a crush,” she whispers.

   Bard's heart is like a mallet in his chest, attempting to crack his ribs.

   “Don’t be ridiculous,” he mutters, though this only makes Sigrid laugh. “I’m sure his wife wouldn’t approve of you saying such things.”

   Sigrid gives her dad a critical look. “He hasn’t got a wife,” she clarifies. “He’s _single_.”

   _Damn this to hell._

   The drive to Burn Bridge is ten minutes, and it is kept in moderate silence with Bain in the back seat voicing a new complaint every now and then. Bard is troubled by what Sigrid has said. It’s ludicrous, really, and what does she know? She’s is fifteen, and he’s thirty-four. He is too old to be having childish crushes.

   _Not that it’s a crush..._

_I can’t believe he’s single._

   _Fuck._

   _No._

_I hate him._

_Oh, fuck._

   And this is Bard’s thought process until he reaches the street where Thranduil lives. It is narrow and uphill and pinpricked with manors and large country homes with tidy gardens and expensive cars.

   “Is this the house?” Tilda asks as they get out of the car.

   “No, it’s further up the street. We’re walking,” says Bard, locking the car manually with the key.

   “Why?”

   Bard turns to Bain, whose expression is of utter disbelief at the idea of walking in the snow as it is getting dark.

   “Bain, I want you to take one look at my car, and then one look at the houses on this street, and then see if you feel the need to ask me that question again,”

   Bard cannot help his biting satire; he is apprehensive. His hands are shaking, and not from the cold. He hands Legolas’ birthday present to Tilda to carry and he sees now, truly, how awfully it is wrapped, and he feels nauseous.

   The small troop begins their walk up the street, which curves here and there and is uphill more than it is flatland. Sigrid complains of her feet in high heels, so Bard carries her on his back, feeling guilty that his children must weather his anxiety. It sits deep in the pit of his stomach and oozes through his veins like poison and he tastes it on the roof of his mouth like blood or a coin on his tongue. His heart is in his throat.

   When they arrive at the house, Sigrid climbs down from her father’s back. He isn’t sure how much longer he can bear the anxiety. It is like a tremor through his body. It infects him and sickens him and there is blood pounding in his ears in time with the song playing inside the house. His vision becomes fuzzy at the edges, the stars surrounding him and suffocating him. 

   The door to the lavish manor is open and they enter, engulfed in light and music and voices as sound travels down from the back of the manor to the front, where soft creamy walls and an ancient-looking rug greet arriving guests. A curving staircase to their immediate left grins widely at them, its bannister a rich dark timber against the white of the steps, and a row of portraits and paintings climbing the wall to the second floor. There is a cushioned seat by the stairs, stacked high with gifts like a tower of colourful paper and ribbons. Bard adds his to the pile carefully, afraid it will topple. They then hang their coats and scarves and gloves in a cupboard to the right. Bard tries not to notice how out-of-place they look with the furs and wool already taking up room inside.  He ushers his children forward, ahead through a large open archway graced with tall pillars that leads into a large kitchen and lounge area.

   Everything is white and clean and old and a single touch of the furniture might cause it all to crumble. Bard feels awkward and bulky and loud in his dress shoes despite the teeming crowd milling in the open space before him. To the left is a kitchen, pristine and modern, but with old cabinets and a door to a cellar underneath the house. The rest of the substantial room is adorned with squashy sofas and a crackling fire and an odd hundred or more people in silk frocks and designer suits, standing or sitting and laughing into their champagne.

   The atmosphere is exactly as Bard had predicted; warm and cold at the same time, and the air thick with the smell of money and expensive liquor.  

   He sees Thranduil through the mass of people, all of whom are tall, even though many are shorter than Bard. Thranduil is easily the tallest in the room. His long hair is free of its customary ponytail, spilling out over his shoulders and down his back, like the colour of the moon in summer. He is near the fire, speaking to a short, stocky man with curly black hair and a permanently disgruntled expression. Thranduil appears disinterested in the conversation and his eyes wander. They wander to where Bard is standing, and the man could have sworn he had seen Thranduil’s face flicker with amusement.

   “Da, it looks like we’re the only kids here,” Tilda whispers, though there really is no need to with the droning noise of music and chatter.

   “I know, darling. I’m sorry,” Bard mumbles, resting a hand on her shoulder, his heart picking up again.

   Just as Bard watches Thranduil excuse himself from the man he is talking to, a pitter-pattering wave of small feet burst through from another room by the kitchen. Dozens of children stream into the room, led by Legolas, who is laughing and clutching a soft ball. He sprints to the other side of the room, surprisingly quick on his feet, and he launches the ball into the air, over the heads of other children who jump and shriek, trying to catch it. A boy in the kitchen catches it, his round face split into a wide laugh. Bard is unsure of what game they are playing, but everyone has joined in, even those who look too old to be playing with youngsters. Bard hears his daughter breathe a sigh of relief next to him.

   He returns his attention back to Thranduil, who is politely pushing his way through the crowd, smiling kindly at his guests, but only briefly, as if it pains him to converse with them. He is using his cane again, the heavy _thunk_ against the timber sending shudders through Bard’s spine. Thranduil is still strangely graceful in his movements; his posture is straight and grand, his footsteps calm and easy. His suit is a dark grey for the evening, a maroon waistcoat tight around his figure, and grey tie as well. His trousers do not even crease as he walks over.

    “Good evening,” he begins once he is within speaking distance, which for Bard could afford to be a few steps back, for Thranduil is very close and it is making him feel ill-at-ease, but in a way he cannot quite describe. “Thank you for coming.”

   There is a dense silence to follow and Thranduil raises an eyebrow delicately, peering to Bard’s children who shuffle awkwardly on their feet. He seeks an introduction that Bard is unable to give, provided his sudden lack of voice and composure. He struggles through it.

   “These are my kids,” he says, starting to feel warm beneath the collar of his shirt. He indicates each of them; “Tilda, my youngest. And this is Sigrid, and this is Bain.”

   To Bard’s astonishment, Thranduil greets them all individually, shaking Bain’s hand and lightly kissing Sigrid and Tilda on their cheeks, leaving the former completely red in the face, her skin now clashing with her dress.

   Thranduil then turns to Bard. “Would you like a drink?”

   Bard nods stiffly, his heart still seizing against his chest. He thinks it will give out any second. And how embarrassing that would be, to have a heart attack in the middle of a crowd like this.

   From the corner of his eye, he sees his brood about to scatter and shoots them a deadly glare. “If I catch any of you drinking, I’ll box your ears.”

   Bain winks at his dad and disappears from view. Bard groans internally.

   “I was under the impression that you would bring your wife,” Thranduil imparts as he and Bard enter the kitchen. Bard can see many bottles of wine on a large oak table to his right, most of which are yet to be opened. However, Thranduil takes only two wine glasses from it and precedes through the kitchen, opening a pantry and retrieving a dark bottle, its label silver and white and expensive-looking. He takes a moment to uncork it, and then sets it on the counter to let it breathe.

   “I don’t have a wife,” Bard answers, attempting a paring of humour in the tone of his voice, because he admittedly thinks it very funny that he brought three youths instead one wife.

   Thranduil’s eyes study him for a moment. Bard had hoped he would take the jest, but he deciphers it very literally instead. Thranduil’s eyes soften and meet Bard’s with an intense sadness; an empathetic sadness that tells Bard something too. Something he did not expect.

   “You have my condolences,” Thranduil offers. He pours the wine. It does not spill.

   Bard accepts the sympathies with a curt incline of his head and takes the glass, though with slight hesitation as he waits for Thranduil to take his first. The taller man does not miss this and simpers for a moment, entertained. He takes a sip. Bard mimics him, though not to quite the same effect as he is slightly distracted by Thranduil’s lips against the glass. But it is good wine; strong and fruity. The kind that could get you very drunk, very quickly.

   “Your children seem charming. Do they attend Ashville?”

   “They go to a school in Leeds,” Bard refutes.

   “They did not wish to be associated with their father at the same school?”

   “Something like that,”

   It seems Thranduil is deeply misguided by how much (or how little) teachers are actually paid, even at independent schools. Bard finds this funny, but only bitterly so. He takes another sip of wine and he feels his nerves begin to lessen, though still his heart is tense and his stomach tight.

   The night plays out in this fashion; in mingling and small talk and sips of wine between each introduction. Bard greets more people than he cares to count and after the fourth person, decides there is little point in memorizing their names as he doubts he will ever speak with them again. He recalls Elrond, sharp and quick-witted, Lindir, quiet and disapproving, Thorin, the grumpy character Thranduil had been speaking with earlier, and Saeros, who is snarky and disliked. After him, Bard quite forgets everyone else’s names, the wine already disturbing his thoughts and his fingers numbing a little more after every handshake.

   All the while, Thranduil is within his sights, their eyes occasionally meeting, but their company never close enough for further conversation. Though what more could they talk about? They had nothing in common. Except perhaps deceased loved ones, though that tends to be a grim topic of discussion at the best of times.

   Bard tries to keep an eye on his children as well, but it seems they are taking far more enjoyment from the party than he is. There are many adolescent’s to socialize with, flittering about in groups or pairs, playing games and talking and sneaking alcohol when the adults aren’t looking, or when they are already too drunk to be mindful.

   It is all a bit much, really; not just the simple fact that it is an eight year-old's birthday party, but the people and the liquor and the tight suits and long dresses that one has to watch constantly for fear of treading on them. Bard can honestly say he hates people in any sort of quantity; hates the company and hair hitting his face and brash voices of intoxication.

   He gets up from his position by the fire, excusing himself from a conversation with a man whose name he did not care to commit to memory. It was only half a conversation, really, but Bard excuses himself nonetheless and, taking his glass, he goes out to the hall.

   Here it is already quieter, the dulcet sounds of the party behind him. It is dark in the entrance, the front light outside filtering through the sash windows. The blissful silence envelopes Bard securely. He wants to see upstairs, but knows it will not be permitted, so he sits on the steps, nearer to the middle than the bottom so that he will not be seen. He relaxes, noticing now the way his heartbeat is slowing, the adrenaline leaving his body and tiring him.

   He leans his head against the bannister and looks at his watch. It is late; an hour before midnight. He wants to go home. His children need to be in bed.

   He looks into the murky depths of his wine. He has drunken much tonight, and eaten little.

   _I’ll have to get a taxi_.

   Bard hears footsteps, then, unhurried and measured; footsteps that know he is there. He peers down to the archway as Thranduil crosses its threshold, his cane in one hand and a glass of wine in the other. He stares at Bard, curiosity in his eyes, but in no other feature. It unnerves Bard, the way Thranduil’s eyes speak when his lips do not, always telling something different to what Bard expects.

   “Shouldn’t you be entertaining guests?” he remarks, though it is a bold question. He never knows how to communicate with Thranduil; if he ought to speak his mind or hold his ground.

   “Guests can entertain themselves,” Thranduil replies, stepping closer. He takes a drink of wine and it leaves a smearing of red on his lips for a second before he licks it away.

   “And yet here you are.” That was bold, surely. Perhaps it’s the liquor; Bard doesn’t really care. He can honestly say he’s had enough of tip-toeing around Thranduil.

   He sees the sliver of a smile behind Thranduil’s glass in the small light from outside and eyes sparkling with delight at these words. Thranduil takes this as an invitation, stepping up towards Bard and sitting down next to him. Bard can smell the spicy aroma of wine and the moderate scent of Thranduil's cologne. This time, he allows himself to enjoy it.

   For a moment, they simply sit, leaning into each other’s spaces and drinking the wine. Bard doesn’t mind this sort of company. It is a shared dislike for socializing, though neither man voices this. And he wonders, for it is odd, that he prefers the company of Thranduil to that of any other person in the room.

   _I’m terrible at hating people._

   It is not long before footsteps come to interrupt… whatever this is. A couple fall into the entrance hall and into themselves, giggling and holding hands like teenagers, though they aren’t much younger than Bard. They appear for only an instant, unmindful of the two men on the stairs as they create havoc in the stillness - and then they are gone, around the staircase and into the first unoccupied room.

   “Does that… happen often?” Bard inquires, for he feels suddenly sixteen again, at a party where teenagers do that sort of thing.

   “We are the upper class,” Thranduil answers richly. “We are less pompous and thin-lipped than you might realize.”

   “I find that hard to believe,” Bard says ignorantly, downing his wine. It goes straight to his head.

   “Do you?” Thranduil is very close to him now. Their suits are touching and Bard’s fingers around his glass are watched by those attentive blue eyes. “You are quick to judge, especially after seeing that.”

   “Two drunken aristocrats aren’t going to change my mind,”

   “And a third?”

   Bard’s heart quickens at this and he swallows nervously, his thoughts a blur and his cheeks flushed from wine. He can see stars at the edges of his vision again; though this time they are pleasant and dancing. Despite this, he knows he has not drunken so much as to have misheard that. And the worst part is he almost wants to. Or is that the best part? Doesn’t matter; he wants to.

   He ponders if he should try and spit out a witty response; his sober self may have cause to regret this.

   _Fuck it. I’m not that drunk._

   He replies with a kiss, tentative and gentle.

   Thranduil’s response leaves Bard in disbelief and his heart like an earthquake under his skin. Thranduil pushes him against the bannister, the careful kiss now deeper, hungrier. Bard is stunned for only a moment before he allows himself to at last take pleasure at the tenderness of Thranduil’s lips on him; at his neck and at his jaw and again and again at his lips, again and again the taste of wine in his throat as he drinks in Thranduil’s short breaths and quiet moans. Bard brushes at his cheek, then his jaw, and then fingers through his hair that is like satin and gold and then against his neck, pulling him closer, harder, and their kisses growing desperate now.

   The dangers of taking it too far makes it almost too easy to do exactly that. Thranduil’s hands wander. Bard bites down on his lip. They are red with colour and his neck is soon to go the same way.

   And then the echo of cheering from the other room receives them, and Bard is suddenly hit with the realization that what he is doing is actually very, _very_ wrong. His kids are here, along with a hundred or more other people. He reminds himself of his age; he is not a reckless teenager anymore.

   He straightens himself, his head spinning and the stars and spots at his eyes almost causing tunnel vision. Thranduil backs off, his expression unreadable, but his eyes lustful and temperate.

   “We can’t do this,”

   “Why not?”

   “Because there are people,”

   “Stay the night, then,”

   “ _What?_ ”

   “Stay the night with me,”

   “I-I can’t. I have to get my kids home,”

   “You’ve been drinking. Galion will take them home,”

   Bard has no idea who Galion is, but he is almost tempted to agree. He _has_ been drinking. And his kids require safe passage home… he wonders if they would buy a story about a business discussion.

   Probably not.

   _No. You’re not thinking clearly._

   Bard looks at Thranduil, who appears almost despaired at the thought of Bard leaving. Perhaps he is, but Bard is more inclined to believe it’s the wine getting to his head. He does not think it is a good idea, though he admittedly cannot convince himself to leave.

   Thranduil leans in again, his lips against Bard’s, his tongue snaking over them, engaging and needy. Bard cannot resist the enticement and responds eagerly by sealing the kiss. And it seems he seals a deal as well, because in a second Thranduil is back on his feet, picking up his cane and glass and brushing himself down, his expression collected and set once more in its angular features. He walks down the steps and leaves Bard with a fleeting smile before returning to his guests.

   _Fuck._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Will Bard stay, will he go home? (he'll stay. like it's not even up for debate)  
> Hope you enjoyed! I spent all day writing this (literally... all day. 13 hours.... oops)  
> And thank you all for your comments. They honestly keep me beaming through this whole thing and I love you all endlessly for them.


	5. Games

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so super quick because I'm currently rushing to publish this before leaving for work, but I want to post a disclaimer that I am a physically abled adult and my research is from the internet alone. I'm not an expert in physical disabilities and I sincerely apologize if I offend anyone with this chapter. If you think what I have written is wrong or offensive, please, please, PLEASE tell me, and I will fix it straight away. But please remember that this is from Bard's perspective, and that understanding will be learned in the next few chapters. But I promise there is no ableism in this fic.  
> Also; I want to apologize as well to any of you who were expecting smut. I'm not a smut writer and it makes me super uncomfortable. What you read in the following chapter is my first ever sexual encounter between two characters. So... trigger warning for gay squishiness and Bard's vulgar inner monologue. This chapter is solid gold tripe with zero plot.

_Why am I still here?_

   It is past midnight, the clock in the entrance hall chimes and it stops and more time passes and Bard is still in the manor, his heart never ceasing its changeable beat. He has eaten every canapé, every hors d’oeuvre and every breadstick he managed to get his hands on, pissed at least three times, and drained five wine glasses of water. Bard is sober and he is ready to go home.

   Yet he remains, hovering in the entrance hall like a poltergeist as guests begin to leave, dragging sleepy feet into taxis and chauffeured cars and even into limousines, long forms creeping out into the darkness of the road ahead. Thranduil stands courteously at his open door, shaking hands and brushing cheeks in farewell to every guest, ever the noble host, looking untouched in his suit and unaffected by the wine. The events of an hour ago are undisclosed. Sometimes Bard is able to trick himself into thinking it never happened, but each time he does Thranduil averts his gaze to him, the ghost of a smirk on those prim features and the same heralded desire behind those eyes. It makes Bard’s stomach twist.

   He detests himself for what he does next, but cannot bring himself to regret it. Not yet. He is sober now and he has made this decision sober and he is going to try his best to deal with that fact.

   His three children find him at the archway, Sigrid’s hair tumbling out of its up-do and Tilda half asleep on her feet and Bain very poorly hiding that fact that he has been drinking. Bard assesses his clutch, praying they have not humiliated themselves. Sigrid looks oddly pleased with herself, while Bain might be sick at any moment. Bard hopes he’ll have a hangover tomorrow.

   He kneels down, pretending to fix the hemline of Tilda’s dress.

   “Listen,” he says, more to Sigrid than to the other two, for she is the only one who will comprehend him. “Will you be all right if you go home without me?”

   “Without you?” she repeats, perplexed.

   Bard nods quickly, looking up at his daughter. “I’m going to stay,” he says slowly and with finality. He sees no point in lying to her.

   “What f – oh, my God.” Sigrid claps her hands to her mouth, her eyes so wide they might pop out of her head. She has always been the brightest of the three, understanding things she probably shouldn’t. “Da, oh, my God.”

   “Ssssh,” hisses Bard, getting to his feet and glaring at her.

   He glances to Thranduil, who has been watching the group between smiles and handshakes, and gives a short nod. The grin that follows on Thranduil’s lips is almost unbearable to Bard. He hates that he’s doing this consciously, but at the same time feels very excited. Maybe it is pure curiosity or maybe it is a real and proper schoolboy crush; either way, Bard has chosen this as a sober man and, honestly, that is all that matters to his moral centre, flawed as it might be.

   It is now down to waiting, which Bard _definitely_ hates. Thranduil instructs Galion, an older, slightly ruffled-looking man to drive Bard’s children home. He gives the butler the address and receives a cheeky look in return. Even Sigrid winks at her dad before she walks out the door with her brother and sister. Bard is quite nearly overcome with the urge to dig a hole and bury himself alive.

   He escapes to the kitchen, peeking in cupboards and pantries and finding a great deal of alcohol and not very much food at all. He fetches himself a glass when he comes across the wine he and Thranduil had been drinking earlier that evening, though it was in the cupboard beneath the sink, hidden from greedy hands.

   “That is expensive, you know,”

   Bard nearly drops the bottle in accordance with his heart which plunges to his feet with shock. He hears Thranduil chuckle, a deep echoing sound from behind a graceful hand. Bard glowers at him, bemused as to how he had approached so silently, especially since the guests appear to all have left.

   “Well, I’m sure someone like you will have no trouble getting your hands on some more,” he comments, pouring the opulent red liquid generously into his glass.

   He sees a hand appear, suddenly, as if from shadow or memory, but there nonetheless and holding another wine glass, finely manicured nails against the crystal. Bard pours, though struggles to get elbow room. The other man is standing very close.

   “People like me,” Thranduil murmurs thoughtfully, lifting the glass to his lips, tasting it with the words. The wine turns his lips crimson and moist again and Bard stares. Stares and stares. And Thranduil begins to leave the kitchen, the calming _thunk_ of his cane accompanying him, and Bard follows and he stares. “How strange, that you think us so different to you, just because we are… collectors of fortune.”

   Bard almost chokes with laughter at this, and he is glad to see Thranduil smiling as well, clearly humoured by his own joke.

   “You don’t seem as… invested, as the others,” Bard says, unsure if it is the right word to use.

   Apparently it is, for Thranduil indicates the affluent décor of his house with a sweeping gesture as they walk through it. “My money is old money. It was my grandfather who established Greenleaf Books and from there its wealth was passed down to my father through position, just it was passed down to me, now head of the company. And let us say I accepted it with… reluctance.”

   “You didn’t want to publish books?”

   Thranduil frowns at this as they climb the stairs. “Not exactly; but my aspirations for the future were somewhat non-existent, so I preceded my father, thinking of the money. Though, I confess it did not do me any good.”

   Bard gives him a quizzical look, but receives no further justification. He thus preoccupies himself with the paintings and pictures on the wall against the stairs, seeing a few that look to be that of family, while the majority of others are simply fine paintings and photographs.

   Bard is curious of the second floor, but when they arrive on its landing, it is dark and silent and mostly closed doors, white and restful. Legolas is likely asleep behind one of them, and Thranduil presses a finger to his mouth until he and Bard are in the clear. He then continues. Bard wonders where Thranduil is leading him.

   “What of you, Mr Bowman; did you always want to be a teacher?”

   Bard shrugs noncommittally. “I guess so. I never pictured myself doing anything else.”

   “I’m glad,”

   It is a simple statement, but in the dim light Bard can see Thranduil’s eyes telling him that it is more than just gladness; it is appreciation, and a tactful way to be thankful for their meeting.

   Thranduil opens a door at the end of the wide hall. It looks the same as all the others doors, but upon entering its bearings, Bard is now aware that it is a bedroom. Thranduil’s bedroom.

   _Fuck_.

   Thranduil does not turn on the light, though it is not needed. The light of a lamppost outside shines through open curtains, beaming down against a chaise lounge and an old, regal-looking four-poster bed, magnificent in its finery. Bard can make out a chest of drawers to his left, but little else. He jumps slightly when Thranduil shuts the door.

   “You know, I could have sworn you hated me,” Thranduil says, changing the subject effortlessly, a hint of mirth lacing his voice.

   “I do,” Bard counters quickly, incensed.

   Thranduil moves in, trapping Bard against the door in one, even motion, leaning against the frame and over him, very close. “You have a funny way of showing it,” he says.

   Bard’s stomach flips, his hands becoming clammy around the wine glass and his breathing coming in short and biting. He tries to gather an account for himself, but is unable to. Perhaps it was never hate. Perhaps he had been fooling himself. The idea of becoming attached to another human being distresses him, to say the least, and Thranduil is exactly the kind of person who could break his heart, whether by choice or misfortune.

   Yet he is here, in Thranduil’s grand estate, in his lavishly furnished bedroom, drinking his expensive wine from glasses made of _actual crystal_ , and flirting. _Flirting_ ; it is a practice Bard has lost touch with, much to his detriment, for Thranduil is disarmingly good at it. If Bard is honest, he would much rather just get right to it, but he supposes these things have a structure; a set of rules to follow.

   Thranduil is laughing now, low and resonating in his throat, throwing his head back, for he seems to appreciate Bard’s unwarranted silences when his inner monologue picks up the conversation.

   “I mean, I guess I _did_ ,” Bard tries to recover, stumbling over his words, willing his awkwardness away. “But I suppose I… feel differently now.”

   “Feel differently? You behave the same,” Thranduil observes, his eyes sparkling, like the entire situation is a huge joke. He finishes his wine and takes Bard’s still full glass from his hands and sets them both on dresser near the door.

   “Don’t make me change my mind about staying,” Bard threatens, grimacing slightly, his hands feeling empty now, and vulnerable.

   Thranduil laughs again. “You won’t,” is all he says.

   Then he leans forward, closing the already small gap between them. Bard can almost feel his smirk as fervent lips caress his neck, teasing and unhurried and building, building, building until Bard feels electricity down his spine and his body quakes. Thranduil makes an amused sort of noise and retreats, leaving Bard pink in the face and glad for the lack of decent lighting.

   This is Bard’s limit, apparently. And it’s not because he wants to claim some sort of dominance over Thranduil, no. He’ll admit to, perhaps, wanting things to go his way for once, but more than that, Bard is just very, _very_ tired of playing games.

   He counters Thranduil’s tease by kissing him, and this time refuses to hold back. His lips wander, to Thranduil’s neck and ears and jawline, and he quickly learns to relish the way Thranduil seems to thaw at his touch, confident icy mischief all but lost. And he kisses him, rougher and messier, careless as to where his lips actually land. Bard pulls at Thranduil’s tie, anxious now, and hungry to see more of him, to kiss more and touch more. _More, more, more._

   He starts to push Thranduil towards the bed, but this proves difficult. Thranduil suddenly buckles heavily on his left side and Bard rushes to catch him before his body has a chance to be familiar with the floor.

   “Sorry,” he mutters, his tone almost heartbreaking in its sweetness.

   Bard thinks nothing of it. He doesn’t feel that now is really the time for Thranduil to be apologizing for himself. So Bard takes on the only option available to them. He hitches Thranduil into his arms and carries him to the bed. Thranduil snorts with laughter against Bard’s shoulder, his long hair veiling their faces until Bard’s knees knock into the bed and he drops Thranduil into what must be at least a dozen pillows and cushions.

   _Fucking rich people._

   His lips are on Thranduil’s once more, and his fingers find their way to his silken hair like starlight and to his buttons and to his neck. Again and again. _More, more, more._ Thranduil’s hands are deft, too, in the removal of Bard’s clothes, his shirt untucked and his belt undone already. But Bard wants to be first; wants to see Thranduil first and drink him in and touch him. His kisses are furious now, against skin and against lips and against hands and eyes and chest. And Thranduil’s skin is like gypsum or narcissus and he smells of wine and pine needles. He is soft and feels fragile and Bard is trying to be guarded, afraid to cause harm. But Thranduil’s kisses are sharp, powerful and demanding, less and less the delicate creature in every grip and every shudder. Bard paints him in bruises, discarding Thranduil’s clothes to the floor where his are soon to follow.

   It goes like this, hot and fast and desperate, tangled in the sheets; small whimpers against pillows and then obscene cries and moans into cupped hands. Thranduil’s fingers are lithe and nimble, but his nails draw patterns into Bard’s back and arms and neck. _More, more, more_ ; the pleasure increasing, building, building, and Thranduil’s ordinarily poised form is writhing and shaking and coming apart at Bard’s performance.

   And then it is slower, and Bard returns the favour of Thranduil’s scratches with a map of kisses on his chest and hips and neck and they are like galaxies against his skin. He bites at Thranduil’s lips and collarbones and the tips of his fingers, gentle, possessive and starved for touch. Then, careless, yearning, they melt into each other, their bodies pressed impossibly close, hands at hips and neck and shoulders and frantic as Thranduil becomes silent in climax and Bard’s vision blurs with stars.

   They collapse, and the bed is welcome relief for Bard’s tired body. His hands meet Thranduil’s in the darkness and they covet his shoulders and hair and waist and they fall asleep to soft murmurs and in tangled limbs exhausted from desire, the shadows of smiles on their faces.

-

When Bard wakes in the morning, it is with the sunrise, and it breaks through swirling grey clouds that promise more snow. For a second, he does not know where he is, but when he recalls and feels the weight of another person beside him on an unfamiliar mattress, he cannot help but smile.

   He rolls over cautiously and sees Thranduil asleep against the cushions (at least, those that had not ended up on the floor). He breathes inaudibly, peacefully, his chest rising and falling against the duvet and his long hair spilling out across his shoulders and arms, barely a tangle despite how Bard had treated it last night in his rough hands.

   He would contentedly watch Thranduil sleep the whole morning, but he feels a duty to his children and is guilty to have left them alone in favour of Thranduil’s company. Had it been worth it? Yes. But still, Bard feels awful.

   He turns over again and reaches to the floor and retrieves his jacket that lies among the rest of his garments. He locates his phone in a pocket and switches it on; the battery is nearly dead and he has a lot of messages and missed calls, most of them from Sigrid, though a couple are from other teachers. He ignores those and only sends a message to his daughter, asking if everything is okay.

   He barely has the chance to press send when he feels hands against his back, his skin prickling as they trace lines where he imagines are very noteworthy lacerations.

   “I scratched your tattoo.” Thranduil’s voice is sleepy, whispered through the sheets.

   Bard flips himself to face Thranduil, whose eyes are wide and incredibly blue in the morning haze as they come down still from the excitement of the night. Bard smiles at him and shifts closer, resting his head up on a propped elbow. The satin sheets feel good against his bare skin.

   “It won’t ruin it,” he murmurs, his own voice gruff from sleep.

   “That’s good.” Thranduil closes his eyes again. Bard brushes stray hair from his face.

   They drift in and out of wakefulness as the sun climbs the sky, their bodies falling into each other like scattered patterns of dreams and phosphenes. Bard knows they ought to rise, but the quiet of the morning and the stillness in the bed and Thranduil’s skin against his is enough to trade for all the regret of a lifetime.

   Bard finds it odd, the change in his feelings for Thranduil. But he remembers what he had said that night; that Bard’s behaviour is not different. His stomach still twists and his heart seizes and his fingers go numb at the tips. It is easy to mistake for loathing, whether it is a considered decision or not. Bard is still hesitant to voice the true nature of these things, but at least he is no longer lying to himself. And he needs this, he thinks, after so many years, and it has done him no good to be hesitant. They are two broken men with broken families and that is enough to keep Bard here, at the dawning of wonderful things.  

   They do rise, eventually, but not after exchanging small affections; hushed talk of pleasure and fingers thin and supple against Bard’s tattoos, hearing the stories behind them and kissing them, only to have one man’s lips caressing the other’s with gradual eagerness, the craving for touch now weathered, free for other things to come forth.

   They dress, Thranduil in a white t-shirt and sweatpants rolled at the ankles because they’re already too short, and Bard in his shirt and trousers from the night before, pushing back the sleeves and retying his hair into a bun. He is awed, however, at Thranduil wearing anything that isn’t a suit, and he almost laughs, except that he finds it extremely hot, because it seems nothing properly fits Thranduil’s tall figure, and Bard enjoys peeks at his stomach when he stretches. 

   But the enjoyment is only fleeting, for Thranduil is suddenly stiff at his left side and reaching for his cane which was abandoned by the door. He leans weightily on it, grimacing in discomfort. Bard chews his lip with concern. He has never asked what actually ails Thranduil, never feeling bold enough to probe into the secrets of his life, and neither having cause for it to be a bother until now - first at night, and then in the aftermath, causing distress.

   “Are you all right?”

   Thranduil offers Bard a sceptical look, and then nods, testing out his body, and finding it able. “I’m fine. My side went a bit rigid,” he says.

   “Is that… my fault?”

   Thranduil’s lips play at a smirk. “You could say that,” he answers, though he does not mean it in a bad way.

   Bard want’s to feel proud, but only remorse settles in his stomach.

   “Don’t worry,” Thranduil insists, nearing Bard, his back arched from the pressure. “It is something I live with.”

   “What is it?” Bard finally dares.

   “You don’t know? I thought everyone knew.” Thranduil is genuinely stunned. It seems his life is less personal than Bard had anticipated. No doubt being head of such a successful publishing firm has its drawbacks in the media. But Bard has ever paid poor heed to that of celebrity gossip, finding the life of the upper class dull and ill-advisable. How wrong he finds himself, in that respect, when he is thrown into the thick of it.

   When he shakes his head in reply, Thranduil sneers lightly. “Cerebral Palsy,” he clarifies. “All down my left side.”

   Bard opens his mouth, and then closes it, uncertain of what to say. He wonders to perhaps offer his sympathies, but knows it will not be accepted. His brain fights for a response.

   “I thought that only children had that,”

   _Great, Bard. Brilliant; you’re so understanding, you fucking wanker._  

   Mercifully, Thranduil simpers and begins to make for the door. “Many children have therapy for it, yes, but whatever progress made will never meet the requirements of an abled person,” he says with disdain, the words bitter on his tongue. "It stays with you, regardless of medical assistance. And my case is… particularly unique.”

   “Unique?” repeats Bard, following Thranduil down the hall.

   “My mother and father ignored it,”

   “Oh,”

   Bard can think of little else to say, worried about being disrespectful or rude. He doesn’t know much about Cerebral Palsy, only that it takes on many different forms. What he can truly admit is that it explains a lot about Thranduil’s behaviour, and not just his use of a cane. It explains his stiff handshakes and natural communication with words and with eyes rather than with gestures or head movements. It explains also his posture, and how some days it is straight, and other days it is hunched to the right to take off the pressure on the left.

   The topic is lost to them when a door opens and Legolas stumbles out his in pyjamas, rubbing sleep from his eyes, his golden hair sticking out in odd directions like firelight. Bard freezes, looking to Thranduil for instruction. But Thranduil merely leans downs and wraps his son into a warm embrace, hitching him onto his hip and blowing a raspberry into Legolas’ cheek. The boy hoots with merriment and Bard hearts swells, never having seen Thranduil and Legolas’ relationship in private, and thinking it beautiful.

   “Morning, Mr Bowman,” Legolas said from over his father’s shoulder. He has his fist curled into Thranduil’s hair.

   “Morning, Legolas,” Bard stammers.

   “Father, why do you never let _me_ have someone sleep over?”

   Bard burns bright red, biting his tongue to stop from laughing. He can see Thranduil’s face parting in a huge grin as he sets Legolas down on the floor again, rubbing his hip.

   “You’re not old enough,” he says with definiteness, and Legolas groans.

   They eat breakfast together. Bard finds it absurd, the way he has almost infiltrated this family. Legolas sits on the table and chews his toast and talks about the party, having enjoyed himself immensely. He doesn’t find it strange that Bard is there, drinking coffee without sugar and letting his leg touch Thranduil’s under the table. Legolas speaks to his teacher with assurance and clarity, as though situations such as these happen all the time. Bard secretly hopes this is not the case.

   He decides he has to leave before noon, unable to impose upon Thranduil and Legolas for much longer, as he has his own family to return to. He takes his things still on Thranduil’s floor and says goodbye to Legolas, who is on the carpet by the ashes in the fireplace, opening his presents.

   “Will you come again?” Thranduil asks at the door, his eyes longing and striking in their sadness. He does not want Bard to leave.

   “Do you want me to?” Bard motions, for he would dearly wish to visit again, but first he wants to know what this is; what Thranduil thinks this is.

   Thranduil fingers are against Bard’s neck, genteel and soft and they send tremors through his chest, making his heart beat erratically. Thranduil kisses him, tenderly and earnestly, the taste of coffee lingering on their mouths.

   “I do,” he says. “I don’t want this to be just one night. I want it to be more.”

   Bard’s heart does a backflip. “Why don’t we start with dinner?” he requests, barely able to get the words out.

   Thranduil smiles, delighted with Bard’s response. He kisses him again. Again and again until they are laughing and their teeth are bumping between the kisses. When at last Bard leaves, his hands linger on Thranduil’s, the touch of their fingers a farewell in another language.


	6. Keats

It reaches freezing temperatures on Monday, but no snow falls. The sky is almost silver, like tellurium, but no rain graces the rooftops. It is all that can be expected from a gloomy day and Thranduil spends it as he has many Monday’s before – in his office in York. There is a towering stack of commissions on his desk and hundreds of emails to answer and he eyes it all with bitterness. Once upon a time, he had adored his job. Now it is tedious, the excitement of publishing wearing off as writers and editors come to him with lazy stories lacking in substance and innovation. It seems to Thranduil that people have this idea in their heads that anyone can be a writer, though seldom can actually write.

    He does eventually plough through a portion of it, organizing and categorising the commissions, giving one-worded replies to emails, making various phone-calls to companies and editors, and palming off certain tasks to different department heads, leaving it to their somewhat capable hands.

   Much weighs on Thranduil’s mind, however, and he struggles to prioritize his responsibilities, which are high in number and ill-advised to be procrastinated.

   But procrastinate he does, for he considers personal things to be far more important. Near midday, he calls Galion and requests to be picked up. Then he abandons his work to his CEO, who evidently thinks her time is best spent haunting the archives in the lowest level of the office building, sorting through manuscripts and compiling them into some sort of directive, which Thranduil does not appreciate, because it already has a structure.

   “Stop changing everything,” he barks into the phone when he finds out where she is.

   “I’m sorry, sir,” she stutters on the other line. “But it really is a mess down here… I thought I’d be helpful and –”

   “It’s an organized mess, Tauriel; we’ve spoken of this. Come to my office, please.” Thranduil has little patience for Tauriel, good-hearted and efficient as she may be. She is headstrong, taking on duties that ought to be passed down to people below her position, which irritates her employer. But Thranduil likes her nonetheless, and knows he would be quite without decent assistance if she wasn’t around.

   She is at his office swiftly, knocking on his door. Thranduil grants her entrance and she stands at his desk, like a sergeant ready to receive orders, though she is smiling, rubbing her fingers with the dust from the books and papers of downstairs.

   “I’m leaving for the day. Can you… do something with this?” he tells her, indicating the paperwork on his desk with a slight gesture.

   “Sure,” she submits, picking up the papers. Then she adds; “You know you have that meeting tomorrow?”

   Thranduil groans in spite of himself. “What is my schedule this week?” he appeals.

   Tauriel turns on a tablet in her hands, flicking through a calendar. “There’s only the meeting with Bloomsbury tomorrow at eleven; they’re trying to buy your vintage books idea.  But there’s a book-signing on Saturday in London that you’re expected to attend.”

   “Is that for the new dystopian novel everyone is talking about?”

   Tauriel nods. “You met the author a few months ago to arrange their book be published in your design.”

   Thranduil recalls this, and dreads travel to London already. It was an inconvenient decision to move so far north of the capital, but the busy city exhausted him and, at the time, his wife had wanted a change of scenery; rolling hills and clean air, so he brought her to the village where he had lived as a boy. He is unsure as to why he stayed in Burn Bridge, his childhood memories flooding in at a weary pace, and then the death of his wife a like shadow at every corner. All Thranduil _is_ sure of is that he prefers it still to the city, where the atmosphere is thick with chatter and fumes and the tall glass buildings threaten to close in on him, clinging to his reckless adulthood when he had spent time drinking in pubs and avoiding his family in favour for university, which he had failed.

   When Tauriel leaves, Thranduil calls a doctor and books an appointment. Then he dons his gloves and coat and steps out into the biting chill where Galion is waiting for him outside with the Jaguar. He asks to be taken to the school. He opens his phone and sends a text message to Bard.

-          _I am coming to pick up Legolas._

   It is lunch time, so he receives a reply almost immediately.

-          **Why?**

-          _I want to take him to a specialist._

-          **You can’t do that after school?**

-          _Are you questioning my authority?_

-          **Are you questioning mine?**

-          _Have you any?_

-          **I thought you cared about your son’s education?**

-          _I do; I am taking him to a specialist._

   Thranduil wants to smile at this altercation, but he cannot shake his concern for Legolas. He may not let on about his situation at school, but Thranduil knows he has only very few friends, if any, and is teased often for being small and timid. Thranduil worries that being acknowledged as dyslexic may only worsen his son’s experience at school. He knows well the turmoil of being bullied and cast aside at a young age.

   His fingers hover over the screen of his mobile phone, the small letters of the keyboard forming words in his head, but not on the device. Long has he struggled with the art of opening up, for Thranduil speaks often and generously, but never of things that bother him. He was taught years ago that his troubles were not for others to be burdened with. But he wants to change this, for he knows it would be better.

-          _I am worried for him._

-          **Dyslexia is very manageable**

-          _I know. But it is not that simple. I do not want him to be teased any more._

-          **“It doesn’t matter who you are or what you look like, as long as somebody loves you.”**

-          _Are you quoting Roald Dahl?_

-          **It’s on my desk?**

-          _You amaze me._

   Thranduil has walked the halls of Ashville College many times and he knows its creaking doors and all the cracks in its walls. But he has never known the feeling of joy within it; only anxiousness and the feeling that he is misplaced, like a ghost haunting his own childhood.

   He does not feel that now. He walks with ease and gladness and with anxiety of a different kind, for in one of the hundreds of classrooms there is someone at last who might actually enjoy his company, and Thranduil has never experienced that within the walls of a school.

   He knocks on the door of the familiar classroom, dark red and silver handle and empty of children. Lunch time is over, but Legolas’ grade has Physical Education in the gym on Monday afternoon’s, just as Thranduil did when he was young. He can never forget coming home every Monday with his left side aching and taut from the physical exercise he had been forced to participate in, his disability unbeknownst to his parents and teachers.

   When he enters the room, he spots Bard sitting cross-legged in his chair by the desk, reading a book. He looks up and the corners of his mouth tug gently as though he is trying not to smile. He stands, setting his book down, and Thranduil cannot restrain his horror at the sweater Bard is wearing because, God, it’s so ugly.

   And yet despite his hideous sweater and his messy black hair tied back in a bun and his scuffed boots ruined with mud and snow, Thranduil’s agitated heartbeat lessens and is calm around Bard. He is almost frightened by how much he likes the teacher. The ease in which Thranduil fell for him is not something he can quite adjust himself to, but he is learning; learning to open up after shutting himself away for so many years. He has suffered through grief and heartache and is in turn wary of attachment, yet he cannot distance himself from Bard; cannot bring himself to yearn in secret. And maybe that is the great tragedy of loss; that it brings forth all things both in terror and in beauty.

   He approaches Bard, shutting the door behind him. He is uncertain of their situation, for nothing is confirmed, and it has been a long time since Thranduil ever had feelings for someone. There is a certain amount of guesswork he can do, but it is ultimately down to time and to affection – another thing Thranduil is not skilled at.

   His eyes rake over Bard and he licks his lips unconsciously, for Thranduil wants desperately to kiss him, to feel again that tenderness and honesty. But what does Bard want?

   It is all incredibly maddening.

   “Are you okay?” Bard speaks at last, his deep voice resonating in Thranduil’s lungs. He is startled by the sincere question.

   “Yes, I think so,”

   “You seem troubled.” Bard closes the gap between them, but he does not touch Thranduil, much to his disappointment.

   He bites his lip apprehensively, fighting the urge to be silent, for he wants this to be different. He wants to let down his guard, at least once, and with someone he might one day trust. There is only one way to find out if someone can be trusted, and it is simply to trust them, and Thranduil wants to try.

   “I only hope that nothing bad will come of this,” he finally says.

   Bard’s face flickers with a sympathetic smile. “It will be fine,” he assures. “And if it isn’t, then we’ll be there to help it get better.”

   Thranduil’s heart shudders at this. “We?” he repeats. He likes the way Bard said it.

   Bard’s dark eyes widen as he realizes he might have spoken out of turn, though Thranduil does not think so. He is amused that he has this effect on the other man, however. A simple repetition of a word appears to have him stuttering, his cool façade crumbling. It seems Thranduil is not the only one who wishes to put his guard down. He chuckles.

   “I mean, Legolas seems to like me, so I thought –”

   “You are right,” Thranduil interrupts "It will be good for him.”

   His left hand twitches warily, desperate to touch Bard, and to feel his temperature and know that it is warm. To know again the burn and the ache and the fondness they had shared only two nights ago. It would be enough just to hold his fingers.

   “What are you reading?” he supplies instead, deciding to change the subject, for he is in need of a lighter conversation.

   Bard glances down at the book on his desk, which is thin, old and tattered and without a front cover. “Keats,” he says.

   Thranduil smirks at this. “Poorly received in his time, don’t you think?” he quips.

   “Those ignorant of the beauty of words are quick to judge,” Bard counters carefully, leaning back against his desk. He fingers a tear in the book then, and recites;

_“Nymph of the downward smile and sidelong glance,_

_In what diviner moments of the day_

_Art thou most lovely? – when gone far astray_

_Into the labyrinths of sweet utterance,_

_Or when serenely wand’ring in a trance_

_Of sober thought? – or when starting away_

_With careless robe to meet the morning ray_

_Thou spar’st the flowers in thy mazy dance?_

_Haply ‘tis when thy ruby lips part sweetly,_

_And so remain, because thou listenest:_

_But thou to please wert nurtured so completely_

_That I can never tell what mood is best._

_I shall as soon pronounce which Grace more neatly_

_Trips it before Apollo than the rest.”_

   His words are met with a kiss, for Thranduil is unable now to contain himself. It might be cheesy and easily equated to a low-budget romantic comedy, but it the pure and humble fact that Bard had the audacity to recite a poem to Thranduil without so much as glancing at the text is enough. It is just enough.

   He tastes the remnants of black coffee and chewing gum on Bard’s tongue. The kisses are unhurried, long and deep and famished. Thranduil’s hands find their way to Bard’s jawline where a rough beard grows, hiding laughter lines and causing a discomfort to Thranduil’s chin that he can get used to.

   “I’ve been thinking about dinner,” he says, kissing Bard between the words, on the corners of his lips and his jaw and temples. “I could cook for you?”

   Bard opens his eyes at this. “You? _Cook?_ Don’t make me laugh,” he growls, taking his turn at Thranduil’s neck, his stubble grazing it pleasantly.

   “What? You don’t think I can cook?” Thranduil snaps indignantly.

   Bard retreats at this, still leaning against the desk. He looks at Thranduil with exasperation. “I’ve seen what you give your son for lunch during our tutoring lessons. It’s nothing but bread and scraps. I’m amazed you fed all those people on Saturday!”

   Thranduil becomes cross at this, for he _can_ cook. “Then I shall prove you wrong,” he retorts.

   Bard’s straightens himself as his face splits into a crooked smile. It makes Thranduil’s heartbeat quicken. Bard closes the space between them again, as if to continue their exchange, but instead he caresses Thranduil’s neck, fingers finding their way to his hair and tucking it behind his ear. It feels nice.

   “When?”

   “Wednesday?” Thranduil offers. “I know it’s an unusual day for a date, however –”

   “Is that what it is?”

   “Pardon?”

   “A date?”

   Thranduil is disarmed, which is a rare occurrence for him, to say the least. He twists his cane in his hand uneasily and recollects himself.

   “I suppose it is,” he discloses. “If that is what you also wish.”

   Bard is mute for a long time and Thranduil almost goes to apologize, hasty and overwrought and altogether disengaged. It is not in his nature to be spoken over nor made to feel scanty, but with Bard it is too easy; the teacher has him entirely swayed and he struggles to maintain his composure.

   “I do,” Bard relays after some silence, which Thranduil now believes was due to his inner-monologue, always interrupting their conversations.

   He beams at this and leans in for another kiss, which is returned with eagerness. Bard’s fingers brush at his ears and send jolts down his spine.

   “I must go. Legolas’ appointment is at one-thirty.”

   Bard nods understandingly. “Good luck. Let me know if there is anything that needs doing on my part.”

   Thranduil says he will and makes for the door. “Six o’clock on Wednesday?” he adds.

   Bard nods again and Thranduil grins, taking his leave, not able to find it in himself to say goodbye.

-

   “Now, Legolas, are you comfortable with being diagnosed with dyslexia?”

   Thranduil loathes the way the doctor says ‘diagnosed,’ like there is something wrong with his son.

   Legolas shrugs. “Yeah.”

   The doctor straightens in his chair, turning his attention to Thranduil, but never quite meeting his gaze, as if he were afraid Thranduil might strike him, which is a tempting idea. “Really, all diagnosis does is go on Legolas’ academic record. When he is older he can use it to request special treatment during exam time and let his teacher’s know if he needs assistance and how. The rest is just positive attitude and creating an altered educational path.”

   Thranduil says nothing. Words are caught in his throat, so he rather remain silent than stammer over his voice. It makes him angry the way doctors treat disabilities as if they are wrong. Not simply unusual or uncommon; just _wrong_ , as if it is a scientific fact. And always it has amazed him that all doctors are physically and mentally abled, yet claim to be experts on things that do not affect them.

   The doctor prints a copy of the ‘diagnosis’ and Thranduil takes it, managing a curt thank you. He takes Legolas’ hand and goes to pay for the appointment, still fuming, his left side cramping just from the strain of his rage.

   He hates medical centres; the anaesthetic in the air makes him dizzy and the off-white walls trigger bad memories. Memories he would pay any price to forget. He is grateful when they get into the car. It is then that Legolas finally speaks.

   “I still don’t understand what’s wrong with me?”

   Thranduil’s blood runs cold. “There is _nothing_ wrong with you,” he says firmly. He tucks Legolas’ hair behind his ear and strokes his face and kisses his forehead, procuring any affection he can muster. “It’s just that you learn differently from the other children.”

   “Because the words are all jumbled up when I read?”

   Thranduil nods.

   “Does this mean I don’t have to read your books anymore?”

   He smirks at this and ruffles Legolas’ hair. “If you really don’t want to, then no, you don’t have to.”

   His phone vibrates in his pocket and he retrieves it, opening a text message from Bard.

-          **How did it go?**

   “Who’s that?” Legolas mumbles, settling himself against Thranduil to sleep for the rest of the journey home. He is wearied easily, just like this father.

   “Ba – Mr Bowman,” Thranduil answers, responding to the message.

   “Is he going to help me at school?”

   “If you’d like. He said he would be happy to,”

   “That’s good,”

   Legolas drifts in and out of sleep, his small figure bumping against Thranduil as the car carries them over long roads and hills and rocky terrain. For a long while, Thranduil has his eyes on his mobile phone, debating whether or not to send Bard another message, for still he is worried; worried that Legolas may not handle his dyslexia well, despite showing signs that he is. But Thranduil locks his phone and puts it away, unable to bring himself to trouble Bard any further. When they arrive home, Galion takes Legolas inside and Thranduil limps out on his cane, his leg bothering him in the cold and stress.

   “Would it be alright if you babysit Legolas on Wednesday night?” he asks, unlocking the front door.

   “Wednesday? It’s an odd day to be going out,” Galion muses.

   Thranduil grimaces. “I’m not going out; I’ve invited Bard to dinner.”

   Galion snickers at this, but not unkindly. “Have you?”

   “What?” Thranduil does not appreciate the way his butler jests, always biting off more than he can chew by way of a joke; always bold in his observations.

   Galion shrugs awkwardly under Legolas, leading the way upstairs to the boy’s bedroom. “I don’t mean to speak out of turn, sir, but it is nice to see you finally interested in someone again,” he elaborates carefully. “It’s been a long time since there was any romantic affection in this household.”

   Thranduil ponders this for a moment, his heart seizing slightly against his ribs. “You do not think Bard a poor client for these affections?”

   “I think he is well-suited to you, and that he is far more inclined than he lets on,”

   This makes Thranduil smile. Galion has often been a good judge of character, and Thranduil likes Bard very much, so to hear his butler speak well of him lifts his spirits.

   Galion puts Legolas to bed, trying to take off his school hat and shoes and socks and blazer. Legolas, murmuring in drowsiness and half-sleep, swats at the butler in annoyance, wanting to be left alone. Thranduil dismisses Galion and takes over, kneeling down with difficulty and untying Legolas’ shoes.

   “Are you all right, Legolas?”

   The boy looks down at his father, blue eyes blinking hazily. He says nothing.

   Once Legolas is undressed and in his pyjamas, Thranduil takes off his jacket and shoes and sets his cane aside. He climbs into the small bed and closes his eyes, glad for rest and comfort, even for a little while. He feels Legolas shift beside him, then a light tug at his hair as his son curls it around his fingers, falling asleep beside Thranduil just as they had used to, a whole other lifetime ago, when even summer had brought chill to their bones.

-

“We are offering you a very large sum of money,”

   Thranduil is back at his office on Tuesday, on the top floor where there is a large conference room, all windows and white walls, and a large pine desk in the centre where half a dozen men sit, twisting uncomfortably in their suits. All eyes are on Thranduil, who sits at the end of the long table, casting his gaze down at them with ferocity.

   He is well-known to deliver a brutal onslaught of debate, his wrath like a vicious beast when it is challenged. And the men in the room are aware of this, yet still they challenge him, their fists curled and their eyebrows arched. Bloomsbury books are after Thranduil’s multi-million-dollar scheme of printing and binding books the old-fashioned way, making the demand for them insurmountable in the publishing commerce. He is putting other companies out of business, and he has to admit he loves it. He had picked up the crumbling pieces of his grandfather’s pathetic business and given it a new name and purpose. They were not going to take this away from him.

   “Let me make myself very clear.” He does not stand. He does not need to. He does not even raise his voice. “If your imagination and brain capacity only extends as far as _buying_ an idea from another company, then I suggest you apologize to your boss for being utterly incompetent and hand in your resignation. There is no price that could tempt me to give up my success to the likes of you.”

   Behind him, Tauriel is fighting the desire to laugh, hiding her mouth behind a clipboard and staining the paper with her lipstick, her hazel eyes dancing with amusement.

   One man stands abruptly, his expression livid. “You are putting us out of business!” he shouts, smacking a hand on the table. “We have no choice but to offer you a deal. Even a contract; give us half of the scheme.”

   Thranduil turns his head to the side, glaring at the man. He sneers at this.  

   “I would offer my condolences, but I don’t actually care,” he concludes, standing. He takes his cane and leaves the room, Tauriel at his heels, finally allowing herself to giggle.

   “Oh, my God. I love meetings like that. It makes me feel like I could take on the world,” she twitters, shaking herself briskly. “Suckers.”

   Thranduil attempts a smile, but is unable to share his CEO’s mirth. He is tired of people trying to buy him off, as though he is so easily swayed by coin and printed paper. The minds of businessmen bore and exhaust him, for they are simple creatures with little respect for originality if it is not theirs.

   He returns to his office and asks his receptionist for tea while Tauriel disappears back to the conference room to dismiss the people from Bloomsbury books, which Thranduil knows she will enjoy.

   He checks the time, and then calls Bard. The phone rings for a long time, but is finally answered.

   “School of Snobby Arseholes, how may I be of assistance?”

   “I used to be one of those snobby arseholes, you know,”

   “You still are,”

   Thranduil exaggerates a gasp. “You’ve got some nerve, Mr Bowman. I’ll tell the headmaster you said that to me.”

   “I want you to know that eight year-olds are better at threatening me,”

   “Eight year-olds threaten you?”

   “It’s a common occurrence,” sighs Bard. “I don’t rightly know how I still have this pathetic excuse for full-time employment. I get sent to the headmaster more than any disobedient student here.”

   Thranduil laughs.

   “So, what brings this impromptu phone call?”

   “I just returned from a meeting,” Thranduil replies. He hopes that will suffice for an explanation because he really has no excuse for himself. He just wants to hear Bard’s voice; wants to open himself up to it.

   It seems it is clarification enough, for Bard hums with humour for a moment and then says; “I always wondered what you actually do. You’re the head of a billion-dollar corporation and yet, as far as I’m concerned, you sit on your backside all day and play solitaire.”

   “I work very hard, actually,” Thranduil objects sincerely. Then, bashfully, “I don’t even have solitaire installed on my computer.”

    Bard howls with laughter at this and Thranduil scowls, glad Bard isn’t actually here to see him blush. But the conversation is easy, and it puts his mind at rest.

   “So,” Bard says after a moment. “What are you going to cook for me tomorrow?”

   _I haven’t done the grocery shopping._

   “I haven’t given it much thought, yet,” Thranduil admits. “Is there anything you’re allergic to?”

   “I don’t think so; but I don’t like broccoli,”

   “No broccoli, then,”

   “I’m still not convinced you can actually cook. I saw what you gave Legolas for breakfast this morning,” Bard scolds.

   Thranduil recalls the sandwich he had stuffed into his son’s hands that morning; raw spinach and marmalade. It was poorly considered, perhaps, but it was better than nothing. “I guess I’m not proficient in the art of breakfast,” he humbles.

   The conversation goes like this, the gentle talk of things that might be trivial, but are new and exciting to them. There is no established relationship as of yet, but Thranduil hopes this will change soon. He hopes he will not have to let go too quickly this thing he has been so starved of. It is a welcome change to feel fondness again, to yearn for the touch of another, even if it is hesitant and inconsistent. He enjoys the adventure of starting over and connecting with someone he might one day grow to love. It is in itself a type of love; a love of love, and of finding it within another person.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was an effort and a half, but I got it done (I think I've had a constant headache for 3 days). I know a lot of people were expecting their date in this chapter, but I had to use this as a 'filler' to address some stuff like Legolas' dyslexia, so I hope it didn't bore you all. I would have finished it sooner (so as to sooner get to chapter 7), but work and mental health delays all things. Anyway, hope you enjoyed, and I'll get to Chapter 7 right away!  
> Sidenote; this chapter is dedicated to Sammy @thranduilscars.tumblr.com because it's their birthday today (4thFEB) and I said I would try to publish it in time, so Happy Birthday! Have a wonderful day :)


	7. Date

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Trigger Warning for death and cancer mention.**

For breakfast on Wednesday, Legolas is given a very squashy pear and a sandwich with just brown sauce. He dribbles the pear down his chin in the car, but saves the sandwich for later.

   “I want to show Mr Bowman,” he tells Thranduil, who is wiping his son’s face patiently as he continues to eat.

   “Why?”

   “He thinks it’s funny,”

   Thranduil is inclined to disagree with this; he has a bad feeling Bard might just be collecting evidence to present to child services should things turn sour. He tells Legolas to finish his breakfast before they arrive at the school. Just in case.

   “Have a good day,” he mutters as his son clambers out of the car.

   Legolas nods, a bit of sandwich wobbling in his mouth. He puts on his hat and sprints to class, late now as the second bell tolls for the start of the day.

   Thranduil decides to take the day off work and go to the grocery store, figuring he ought to buy something to actually cook that evening. Galion assists him, pushing a trolley lazily through the store as Thranduil picks out tomatoes and onions and carrots and mushrooms. He buys a bag of chestnuts, too, and some rosemary and swede. Every item of food he drops into the trolley sends a blow to his stomach. He is nervous about tonight.

   He is so nervous, in fact, that he shuts himself in his study when they return home and hides himself within the pages of a book, in no mood to face the day any more than is required of him. He dozes at intervals and reads at others, listening to Galion cleaning the house and calling for tea whenever the butler is nearby. There is a tension in his muscles that cannot be explained by any disability, and it is not something Thranduil is accustomed to. He is not nervous by nature, and so he is left quite without discipline when such apprehension clings to his bones, wrapping itself around him like a ravenous wolf.

   It feeds on him until six o’clock when Legolas leaves with Galion, the former asking far too many questions about why Bard is coming to dinner and why he must be away for it. Thranduil offers his son very poor explanations, stammering and ‘um’ing and eventually telling Legolas that he will understand when he is older, which is enough for Legolas to gasp, his eyes wide and already understanding. He asks his father if he is in love with Mr Bowman, pointing a small finger almost accusingly.

   “No!”

   “You are! You’re in love with him, Ada!”

   Thranduil’s heart stops in his chest so suddenly he can feel his lungs taking in the impact of his shock. Legolas had not called him Ada in years; not since he started Kindergarten and the other children had teased him for it, thinking it a strange affection towards his parent. Thranduil never thought he would hear it again.

   He kneels down, ignoring the painful protests of his left knee. Legolas gives him a very smug look, clearly thinking he has won the argument.

   “Listen, I am not in love with Bard, but I do like him very much,” Thranduil declares. He brushes at Legolas’ hair, framing his face with large hands. It seems it is time he was honest with his son. “Is that okay?”

   Legolas blinks at Thranduil, his expression somewhat confused. Then he says, “Does this mean I’ll have two fathers?”

   Thranduil fights to urge to laugh, chewing his tongue. “No; it doesn’t mean anything as of yet. I just want to know that you’re okay if your teacher and I are together?”

   “ _Together_ together?”

   Thranduil nods.

   “I guess,” Legolas replies, shrugging. He pauses for a moment, thinking. “You won’t tell the school, will you?”

   “Why?”

   “There’s a girl in Third Grade and she has two fathers and the kids make fun of her,”

   Thranduil is saddened by this, his heart dropping like ice down his throat.

   “It’s okay. No one has to know except us,” he assures, though it aches to say so.

   Legolas smiles lightly and then agrees at last to go. He hugs his father tightly and leaves with Galion. Bard is due to arrive soon, so Thranduil returns to the kitchen to finish cooking.

   His fingers shake as he turns the dial of the oven, setting it to 180 degrees to cook a mushroom and chestnut pie. After a few seconds of deliberation, he pours himself a glass of wine and downs it almost in one gulp, though it has little effect by way of calming. It is still better than nothing.

   The doorbell rings.

   Thranduil takes a deep breath and goes to answer it, his heart catapulting against his chest like it is trying to break free of its fleshy prison. And nothing, _nothing_ , prepares him for what is on the other side his front door. Bard is there, dressed smartly in a sweater and blazer, soft brown and dark grey, hugging his figure tightly underneath a thick black coat. He looks handsome, which is not strange, but his hair is neater, as though it’s been actually brushed, and he has shaved. In his hands he holds a small collection of flowers; Daphne and Lily of the Valley, which Thranduil recognizes from next-door’s garden.

   “I forgot that I had to bring something,” Bard explains quickly, his cheeks pink, matching the colour in his nose. He holds out the flowers and the Daphne smells like citrus and earthy woods. It is almost tragically modest and Thranduil appreciates it more than he has the courage to say.

   “I haven’t been on a date in a really long time,” Bard concedes, slightly embarrassed.

   Thranduil laughs. He laughs and laughs and only stops when Bard steps over the threshold and their hands meet, fingers exchanging poems of thought. And onto Thranduil’s lips Bard kisses a hundred sonnets and translates a thousand hymns.

   He shows Bard around his home, properly this time, navigating him upstairs to a drawing room and a sitting room and indicating various spare bedrooms, which are mostly empty save one, for guests. Everything in Thranduil’s home is very open, giving leave for the sun and snow and trees to feel a part of the indoors. He shows Bard his study, as well, and it is here that Bard stands and gapes and stares.

   “You have so many books,” he whispers, gazing high to the ceiling where Thranduil’s books tower and hide and loom, creeping the walls on their shelves, thousands of stories waiting to be read.

   “The perks of being a publisher,” Thranduil muses, his eyes following Bard’s, wanting to see what he is seeing.

   He runs his fingers against the books, in them a love for stories beyond any measure of devotion. He takes a book down, thin and unread, and opens it, hands running over the pages. Thranduil walks over and looks down, small poems and odes singing back at him.

   They remain in the study for a long time, pouring over books and poetry. Bard reads Thranduil his favourite poems by Keats and Frost, and Thranduil shows Bard Hemingway and Cummings and it seems to him that they share a great deal more in common than he originally anticipated. 

   The tenderness of their exchange is disturbed, however, by the piercing sound of a smoke alarm.

   After swapping stricken expressions, Bard takes the lead downstairs, Thranduil hastening after him, unable to be quick due to his disability. When he reaches the kitchen, Bard has opened the stove and is shaking thick black plumes of smoke away from the alarm with a towel. Mercifully, nothing is actually on fire, but Thranduil’s pie is burnt to a crisp, the piercing shrieks of the alarm like laughter at his failure. He looks down at it woefully, then to Bard, who looks very amused, clearly pleased to have been proven right, which is a shame, Thranduil thinks, because he can actually cook if he is not being so expertly distracted.

   “I don’t suppose you like Thai food?” he suggests.

   Bard chuckles and says he does, so they order Thai food and clean up the kitchen while they wait for it to arrive, the pie going in the bin and a bottle of wine being opened in its place. Thranduil pours sparingly for he knows Bard has to drive home later, as much as it dismays him that he will not stay the night. A fire is lit in the grate in the main sitting room and they sit on the floor against the couches in front of it when the food arrives.

   “To think I was expecting something fancy,” Bard says, picking up a fork contentedly.

   “The wine is expensive, so I think that deserves some credibility,” Thranduil returns, taking a sip of it, savouring its flavour.

   Then he excuses himself for a moment, for he has forgotten to feed his goat.

   “You have a goat?” Bard splutters, incredulity in every word.

   Thranduil realizes now that owning a goat is slightly out of the normal custom of aristocrats – or anyone, for that matter. He shrugs and gets a plate of vegetable scraps from the fridge, gesturing for Bard to follow him outside, where a small barn is kept, attached to the house, to stay the winter for Archimedes when he cannot be in the sun room.

   “You never cease to astound me,” Bard mumbles, stroking the head of the goat as he bleats hungrily, stamping a hoof impatiently. Thranduil sets the plate down and Archimedes eats.

   “Legolas couldn’t be satisfied with a puppy or a rabbit?”

   Thranduil smiles sparingly. “It was my wife, actually, who wanted him,” he clarifies.  

   Bard says nothing, but there is sorrow behind his eyes that Thranduil understands, and has understood since Saturday when he brought no wife to Legolas’ birthday party. Thranduil wonders how long Bard has been without her, and how long his children have been without a mother.

   They return to their meal and it is met mostly with silence, though they sit close to each other, their arms brushing every now and then. Bard tells Thranduil of his day and says Legolas is faring well at school, and Thranduil relays his meetings with distaste and of Tauriel with fondness. But he cannot bear it any longer. He must know. Their relationship cannot progress if past lives and burdens are kept in the dark to fester and haunt them. Bard must be aware of this too, for Thranduil can see that he is agitated, his gaze never quite meeting.

   “Bard, how did you lose your wife?”

   He looks at Thranduil with interest and is quiet for a minute, running a finger around the rim of his wine glass pensively. “Leukaemia,” he replies. “Nine years ago.”

   “I’m sorry,”

   Bard shakes his head. “It’s fine. I have my kids. We cannot choose who we love, or in what state.”

   “You never considered remarrying?” Thranduil queries.

   “Nah. How do you remarry after something like that? And I know it was hard for my kids to grow up without a mother, but I couldn’t bring myself to find someone else,”

   Thranduil nods at this, empathetic. It is something he can relate to, despite his romantic position with Bard. It does not do to go looking for something you do not want; you must wait for desire to come back to you before you may accept it again.

   “What about you?”

   “Hmm?”

   “You lost your wife as well?”

   It is no easy thing for Thranduil to speak of his wife. Guilt and heartache bed his memories of her, even the merry ones. She had been his only companion, constant, and sure in her love for him, and for their son. Thranduil’s world is not the same without her; there is less in it, and he could never find something else to fill it with. Not until now.

   “A car crash,” he finally says, his voice barely a whisper. “I was driving, and my arm become unstable.”

   Thranduil remembers that night. It poisons him with the guilt, festering old wounds, and new ones. His wife had been drinking, enjoying herself at a party where nobles and businessmen mingled and spoke of money and position. Her dress had been like silver, and she had moved as Thranduil imagined stars to move. Her smiles to her husband across the room had been treasures of the finest gold. He remembers getting into the car afterwards, her chatter like a melody of delight and serenity, her red hair dancing in the moonlight like fire. The ice on the roads had been thick that night and so Thranduil had driven carefully. But his left side had betrayed him and acted out of his accord painfully, his own body attacking him and pulling the steering wheel down. He remembers the car swerving off the road and his irresponsible action to straighten it with his right hand, causing it to skid across the road and into a tree.

   The memory haunts him, burning him with shame that he survived when his wife did not.

   Thranduil looks at Bard and he realizes he has been silent for a few minutes now. He has the urge to cry, but it seems he cannot find the strength to. Not anymore. He smiles briefly and the subject is changed.

   They speak no more of the deceased, for the pain is too much to bear. It reminds Thranduil only of how little he has gained in the past 6 years, and how much he still has to lose, especially by showing affection to Bard. But he feels differently when he is with Bard; like it could be worth it to fall in love again, even though the concept frightens him. And perhaps it is foolish to be so wary of love and its consequences, but Thranduil knows he will be hard pressed to admit his true feelings when they come, for he knows they will.

   He lets Bard talk for most of the night, learning of the teacher’s life and his children; of Tilda, who is bright and wild, a faerie’s child; and Sigrid, who adores books and theatre and stealing credit cards from the boys at her school; and Bain, who is the eldest, and like his mother in more ways than he cares to admit. Thranduil would like to meet them again, properly, and makes a note to invite them to his house soon.

   They spend the evening by the fire, stoking it when it falters and resting against each other, their fingers always touching and their eyes always meeting, hungry to learn more of each other, even in silence and whispers.

   But eventually Bard must leave. He dons his coat and Thranduil joins him at the door, not keen to be left alone again. But it is Wednesday and they both must work and look after their children. Things are not the same when you are old and already steady in life; inconsistencies remain inconsistent for they must first be worn and weathered around the things that are stable. But Thranduil hopes it will not always be this way; he hopes things will be constant, no matter the time it takes for that to happen.

   “I have a book-signing to attend on the weekend in London,” he relays carefully, looking down at his feet and twirling his cane against the floor. “I wonder if you would like to accompany me?”

   He looks up to see Bard shrug awkwardly. “I can’t leave my kids alone for a whole weekend,” he supplies, though it is not without despondency.  

   “They are welcome. We can book a hotel; enjoy London for a few days.” Thranduil wants company. He does not like to be alone in the city.  He does not like to be alone, period.

   “Legolas won’t think it strange that we’ll be there?”

   Thranduil shakes his head. “He knows.”

   “He knows?!” Bard exclaims, his eyebrows high to his hairline in surprise and amazement.

   Thranduil smirks, a laugh coming through his teeth and chest.

   “He worked it out for himself, so it was no doing of mine. Unless you told him something?” he berates fondly.  

   Bard scoffs. “I wouldn’t dare,” he says. Then, leaning in, he adds, “I don’t share my affections for others so carelessly.”

   “Affections?” Thranduil rolls the word around his tongue, mischievous, for he and Bard have not shared a kiss all evening, and now the craving is wanton, prickling his fingertips. “I'm afraid I'm not sure what you’re talking about.”

   Bard grins, taking a hint. He moves in at last, relaying these spoken affections with a kiss, long-awaited and yearning. And it is different this time; his arms sneak around Thranduil’s waist and their bodies collide effortlessly. The kiss deepens, tender and loving. Bard’s fingers run though Thranduil’s hair and Thranduil’s arms fold over Bard’s shoulders, his cane clattering to the floor as they embrace.

   “Will I see you again soon?” Thranduil murmurs, still not quite ready to break apart, his lips playing at the corners of Bard’s as he speaks.

   “You see me almost every day,” Bard replies.

   “It is not enough,”

   Bard chuckles against Thranduil’s lips, kissing him lightly and adoringly. “Soon,” he says. “We are rushing this, don’t you think?”

   Thranduil’s hands trembles for a moment. “And what is… _this?_ ” he asks, the nerves coming back to him, but only because he is desperate to know. A rendezvous at a party and one date can mean very different things to different people.

   Bard lifts a shoulder nonchalantly. “I can be your boyfriend, if you like?”

   The air catches in Thranduil’s chest. “You are bold,” he teases.

   “Perhaps, but I like you, so I think it's permitted,”

   “I like you too,” Thranduil returns.

   “I noticed,”

   He scowls at Bard, pushing him out the door. Bard retaliates by kissing Thranduil just once more, long and passionate, and it is a goodbye as lovely as the stars.    

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If anyone has any questions, feel free to ask me on [tumblr](http://queerteddy.tumblr.com/ask) and as always, thank you so much for your comments and kudos. They mean so much to me, really.  
> Sidenote; Thrandy is vegetarian and this skipped my mind until now so we're going to ignore that he gave Legolas salami in Chapter 3(?). I changed it to cabbage? or lettuce? I don't remember. S/o to my best friend for Legolas' sandwich in this chapter.


	8. London

   Bard’s home in Spofforth is a tremor in the snow. The sky swirls like ominous smoke over it, as if threatening a greater chaos to challenge the one within the four walls of brick and mortar and weeds, where vines of ivy fold into the cracks of the old building and tremble from the impact of the pressure inside. It is Friday afternoon, and Bard and his children are packing.

   “Da, have you seen my laptop charger?”

   “You don’t need to bring your laptop, Sigrid. We’re going for two days,”

   “Bain is taking the hair-straightener!”

   “That's because it’s _everyone’s_ hair-straightener,”

   “What?! I thought it was just mine!”

   “Do you think my hair is naturally this straight? You’re honestly a fucking moron, Bain.”

   “Don’t swear, Sigrid!”

   Bard is losing his patience, which is considerable in its endurance thanks to his career, but his children are not his students and he will yell without mercy if he has to, or wants to. And, God, he’s wants to.

   Sigrid almost cowers at his raised voice, but instead raises her chin, in the way that teenagers do, and storms off to find her laptop charger. Bain is twisting the cord around the hair-iron, barely keeping himself together because he can’t find his Doc Martens. His feet curl anxiously in woollen socks. The family require almost immediate departure if they are to make the train bound for London, but Bard isn’t sure if his son will cope very well without his only consistent pair of shoes.

   “Are you sure they aren’t in the laundry?” he supplies hopefully. Bain runs to circumnavigate the house for the seventh time in search of his shoes.      

   “Da, how many jumpers should I pack?” asks Tilda from the dining table, where she is sitting and studying a truly excessive piles of jumpers in front of her. It seems she has emptied her wardrobe.

_I don’t want to die like this._

   Somehow, by a power beyond that of Bard’s mortality, he and his small rabble make it out the door and into the car, Bain’s boots and Sigrid’s charger and all. They drive to Harrogate with barely minutes to spare before the train arrives. When it does they board it, compacting themselves into three seats with their luggage due to the hefty amount of passengers.

   Bard feels uneasy, not because he dislikes public transport, but because of where it is taking him.

   For now, it takes him to Leeds, where it feels somehow colder and the tall buildings are claustrophobic. After changing platforms, a commuter service train to London greets Bard and his children, screeching on the tracks like an angry snake, rumbling and growling and beeping at the station.

   Bard stows their trunks into the overheads when they find a place to sit, Bain and Tilda fighting over one of the window seats while Sigrid is already into the depths of her phone on the other side of the table. Bard drops into the spot next to her, sighing heavily. It has been a long day, the stresses of teaching providing to be too much combined with the stresses of the upcoming journey, which has fed on his mind and chewed at the marrow in his bones during the entire course of his lessons. The three-hour-long train journey meets Bard at the end of his week, opening possibilities, but promising nothing, and making him anxious for it.

   “So, Da, are you and Mr Oropherion are official yet?” Sigrid asks coyly once the train lurches forward, settling them on to their destination.

   Bard’s throat burns at this, his fingers twisting around his jumper. He says nothing and Sigrid looks up from her phone, grinning perceptively. Bain and Tilda watch this exchange from the opposite side of the table, the former slightly troubled by what he is hearing.

   “What do you mean?” he pesters.

   Sigrid gives her brother a scathing look. “Da and the book publisher are an _item_ ,” she quips, her smile growing wider and wider as the tension thickens and thickens. When Bain’s incredulous look only forms deep creases in his forehead, she sighs. “You know we're actually staying _at the hotel_ with Mr Oropherion. He _invited_ da to the book-signing; we’re not going just for the sake of it.”

   “This is a joke?” Bain says, his voice breaking slightly, his eyebrows close to his hairline now.

   Sigrid looks to her father and Bard shrugs. He hasn’t given the whole thing much thought, really. He agreed to go the book-signing and it seems he will not be parted from that decision, though he didn’t actually go to any lengths to alter it; not that he wanted to. He accepts that, perhaps, his children ought to be enlightened about the situation, but Bard is still struggling with the simple fact that Thranduil is his boyfriend. _Boyfriend._ Like they’re seventeen and holding hands in high school. Never mind book-signings and eight year-olds birthday parties; _boyfriend_ makes it seem all very cliché and childish and Bard isn’t sure he’s prepared to admit all this to his three kids. But it seems he has no option, for each of them now are staring at him intently, itching for an answer.

   “Yeah… we’re… a thing,”

   “I knew it!”

   “I can’t believe this,”

   “Is he going to move in with us?”

   Bard is swarmed with dozens of questions in this fashion, all at once, biting and bickering and demanding, and his only civil response is to pop the collar of his coat, tuck in his chin, and pretend that he isn’t there.

   The train ride is this way for the majority of the three hours; Bard drifting in and out of consciousness and Sigrid alternating between reading and twiddling her thumbs over her mobile phone and Bain listen to music so loudly the thrumming of it can be heard from his headphones and through the table and Tilda leaning her head on the window, watching the hills and forests and roads tumble passed them in a blurred haze of green and white and brown.

   After a while, she complains of hunger, but for something sweet, so Sigrid agrees to help her find some food, taking some crumpled money Bard finds in his pocket. He uses this opportunity to take off his coat at last and slide into the window side of the seat, irritated long enough by other passengers brushing and knocking him as they walk up and down the carriage.

   “Da,”

   Bain has turned off his music, his brown eyes now on his father, apprehensive and careful.

   “What’s up?”

   Bard has toiled through many hours trying to get through to his son, and with little to show for it. He is as every teenage boy ought to be; distant, rude, and perpetually on the edge of doing something reckless, should he be pushed the wrong way. Bard has tried to be sympathetic, but it always feels that Bain his keeping much of himself _to_ himself and is not ready to let go of this habit yet.

   “I know it’s not my place, but you… and this guy…”

   Bard manages to piece together what Bain is trying to convey and the knowledge aches deep in his lungs. But Bard is a teacher – one who will be damned if his son isn’t going to be taught things properly.

   “I know this is all a bit… sudden, but remember that just because I am –” Bard twirls his hand for a moment, trying to think of the right word “– _interested_ in Thranduil, doesn’t mean things are going to change.”

   Bain takes a second to process this, though Bard can see it going over his head completely.

   “Yeah, but… does this mean you’re gay now?”

   Bard does his best not to roll his eyes, but it proves difficult. “No,” he counters warily, chewing his tongue. “I’m bisexual.”

   Bain’s face is dismayed for a moment, but the worst of the conversation apparently over. Even Bard feels somewhat ill-at-ease, the topic of sexual orientations not something he had ever prepared for, and is now thrown into the middle of.

   “Since when?”

   “Since… always,”

   Silence, then;

   “Okay,” Bain says, leaning back in his seat. He appears submissive and distracted, his fingers twisting around the cord of his headphones. Bard senses this conversation is not as final as it seems.

   “This book-signing thing, then, does it _mean_ anything?”

   Bard lifts his palms to the ceiling, fingers spread wide. “I don’t know. But I suppose it’s a good opportunity for you and your sisters to meet Thranduil – properly – and see for yourselves if he’s… suitable.”

   “Suitable?”

   Bard nods. “Believe it or not, but you three actually have a say in this,”

   “A say in what?” Sigrid and Tilda have returned, carrying sweets in their pockets and doubt hiding Bard’s change. Tilda crawls onto the seat next to him, offering him a piece of liquorice. He takes it.

   “A say in whether or not I’m permitted to continue seeing Thranduil - officially, as you so eloquently put it, Sigrid,” he relays gingerly as his daughter places herself next to Bain, much to his disapproval, though he accepts her proposal of gummy bears.

   “You need our permission?” Tilda inquires, nudging under her father’s arm. He lifts it and she rests herself comfortably in the crook of his shoulder, eating her sweets and tugging at the lint on his jumper.

   “I do, darling. You guys are more important to me than anyone, and I value you feelings and opinions,”

   “Well, I like him, so you have my blessing,” says Sigrid firmly.

   “You only say that because you think he’s fit,” Bain retorts next to her.

   She shrugs, not denying it. Then her phone vibrates and her attention is swayed from the conversation.  

   “What about Legolas?”

   Bard blinks at his son. “What about him?”

   “Does he know?”

   “Yes. I don’t know his feelings about it, however, so I suppose we’ll find out for ourselves when we arrive,” Bard muses.

   “How much longer until we do?” Tilda moans.

   “Not long. Thirty minutes,”

   Bard’s phone hums in his pocket. He has a message from Thranduil.

-          _Are you nearly here?_

-          **We just passed Hatfield.**

-          _I’ll send Galion to pick you up from Kings Cross._

   Arriving at Kings Cross Station is merciful relief. Tilda has never been to London, so Bard focuses on making her first experience enjoyable, though he feels Thranduil will end up being responsible for this in the long run. They take their luggage and join the teeming crowd punching tickets into the machines to escape the fumes and dirt of the station. Bard spots Galion near the exit, waving at them.

   “How long since you got here?” he asks the butler as they walk to the parking lot.

   “About an hour. We thought to arrive early and check into the hotel,”

   “Where are we staying?”

   “The Savoy,”

   Bard isn’t entirely sure why he asked, for Galion’s answer reveals nothing. It doesn’t sound very prestigious, but nothing in London ever does. Bard is increasingly anxious about the hotel and how much money Thranduil has spent on its potential luxury. Damn his nerves for the book-signing the following night, Bard is more interested in Thranduil’s penchant for spending too much and what it has resulted in.

   At first he does not think it much; the grey and stained white building of the hotel looks humbly modern at the entrance, the main building elegantly extended with stone and glass and a revolving door. Half a dozen cars are parked outside, waiting for people or dropping them off. They all look intimidating and expensive and it is then, from the corner of his eye, that Bard sees the enormity of the hotel above the canopy of the entrance, sash windows and five floors of Victorian era architecture looming down in the night, making his heart stop.

   They enter the hotel, footsteps echoing against the dark tiles of the floor. The ceiling is high, an exquisite golden chandelier swinging above them. The air is crisp. Galion goes to the front desk and checks them in. The receptionist is pretty, her nose small and her forehead high. They take the lift and Galion presses the button for the top floor. Bard’s stomach drops to his knees as the elevator rises.

   He never really had any doubt that Thranduil would have booked a lavish room, but nothing could have prepared Bard for the Royal Suite, its walls white and furniture old and grand. Crossing the threshold of dark, heavy double doors, Bard and his children are greeted by a main sitting room, velveteen armchairs and a marble-top table upon a finely woven rug. Another gold chandelier sparkles from the ceiling, catching the neon lights of the city’s nightlife in its crystals through a large window. White pillars on either side frame the view, which looks out onto the River Thames and the glowing London Eye.

_I can’t believe this._

_I can’t fucking believe this._

_I’ll kill him._

_Fucking rich, beautiful fucking wanker; I’ll kill him._

   “Your room is through there,” says Galion, pointing ahead through an archway. “And there are two more bedrooms to the left for the others.”

   Bard can see Sigrid suppressing a scream of pure delight. Tilda is way ahead of her in this respect, shrieking and running through set of doors Galion has indicated to claim the best bed, her siblings hot at her heels. Bard just stands there, gawking.

   “I’ll have some food fetched for you,”

   He just nods, his still mouth hanging open as he stares and stares at what is front of him. It’s all so excessive and cliché and wonderful and Bard doesn’t know if he wants to be sick or jump on the nearest sofa or do both at once.

   He takes off his coat instead, hanging it carefully on a stand to his right, feeling foolish in his jumper and jeans, but no less in awe of his surroundings. Before him, through the archway, there is a dining room where a large mahogany table sits, polished within an inch of its life and decorated with elegant chairs and a vase of flowers.

   Passed this is another open area, a bay window with a lounge looking over the Thames and a shelf of books at its side. It is here that Thranduil sits, his fingers dancing across the pages of a book. He looks up at Bard’s approach and smiles.

   “You’re here.” He closes the book and his gaze is gentle and tender.

   “What the fuck is wrong with you?” is all Bard can manage to spit out, his heart clamouring in his chest and his voice thick against his tongue.

   Thranduil sits up, his face suddenly stricken, his mouth downturned and his eyes soft, a look of heartbreaking anguish in them that Bard has never witnessed before.

   “I don’t understand…” Thranduil begins, but he is cut off.

   “The Royal Suite? We’re here for _two days_. _For a book-signing!”_

   Thranduil’s expression then breaks with laughter at this. "I thought you would not object to a small bit of luxury,” he confesses honestly, and it seems as though his grin grows ever wider.

   “Small?” Bard repeats weakly.

   “As you say; we’re only here for two days. It’s hardly an extravagance,”

   He sighs heavily and sits down next to Thranduil, exercising an exasperated look. Thranduil only continues to simper before kissing Bard on the cheek, long and clement, hands wandering to his neck where they are balmy and fickle against his skin.

   “I aspire to give you only the best,” Thranduil whispers.

   “But this? It’s a bit much,” Bard maintains, though his heart jolts at the declaration.

   “I would have booked this room had you agreed to come or not,” Thranduil explains plainly, straightening himself. “Legolas likes to take something from here every time we come to London.”

   Bard is taken aback by this. “You allow that sort of behaviour?”

   “Only in this hotel suite,” says Thranduil, chuckling, for he seems to consider it very funny. “I paid for it, so I see no qualm in taking something. Though he did once manage to smuggle an entire lamp out of the hotel, which I did not approve of.”

   “Did you take it back?”

   “No, it’s in his bedroom at home,”

   Bard shakes his head, though he cannot refrain from smiling. Thranduil and Legolas create a strange family, though unquestionably no stranger than Bard’s, of that he is certain. He hopes they do not take anything. They have not paid for this…

   “I don’t know how I’m supposed to repay you,” Bard begins, stammering.

   Thranduil leans in, his eyes ghosting Bard’s lips. “I can think of a couple of ways,” he murmurs.

   Bard feels his spine tingle and his fingers grow hot at the tips. He turns his head to meet Thranduil’s lips in a deep kiss, long starved of their affection and warmth. Perhaps it will not be so troubling, to enjoy the fineries of the rich for even just a weekend. And perhaps Bard will feel guilty for such expenditures later, but for now he is content to indulge them.

   Footsteps can then be heard from the dining room and Bard and Thranduil break apart as a woman enters, her hands brushing at a tablet in her hands. She is tall, her figure slim and appealing. Her hair is cropped short and messy like fire. She smiles at Thranduil, her eyes flickering over Bard curiously, almost as if she has adopted the same habits of her employer.

   “Tauriel, this is Bard,” Thranduil introduces. Bard hastens to his feet, shaking Tauriel’s hand formally. “Tauriel is my CEO, and apparently here for a reason, I hope.”

   Tauriel sneers at this, and Bard is impressed at her courage to be so familiar with her boss, sitting down where Bard had been and presenting Thranduil with the tablet, pointing out various things and talking very quickly to him. Bard tries not to notice how close she is to him, or how naturally Thranduil responds to her touch and smile.

   Deciding he needs a distraction, Bard leaves for the bedroom to see if it is as grand as the rest of the hotel suite, which has no uncertainty that it is. He pokes his head inside and swallows a gasp. A striking four-poster bed sits in the centre of the room, sided by two bedside tables of dark, polished wood, where black-shaded lamps and small paintings and flowers sit. There is another magnificent window on the left wall, drawn over with golden curtains and mounted by two more pillars. A cushioned seat is there as well, which would probably break if one sat on it.

   Bard breathes in the room. It doesn’t smell like a hotel typically does; it smells fresh and clean, like a new house or art gallery.

   Opposing the bed are two more sofas, overwhelmed with cushions and siding a door. Bard opens it to reveal a bathroom, dark green and white tiles and thick walls and doors and pillars of mahogany and a substantial mirror raised above a spa-bath, Bard’s reflection pale and staring back at him.

   He feels pitifully out of his depth, entering this life of money and aristocracy and vintage wine, where the women are beautiful by default and the men… even more so. Bard doesn’t honestly believe he could grow accustomed to a life like this but, God, he is willing to try.

   He goes back to the entrance, wanting to ensure his children are settling in comfortably. Passing the bay window, Thranduil and Tauriel are gone. Bard takes a deep breath and finds another lounge room through a side door. It is set out in a similar fashion to the front entrance, a widescreen television set among elegant sofas and chairs. Several doors lead off to different bedrooms and bathrooms, two of them open.

   He locates Sigrid and Tilda in one, already having thrown their belongings about the room, which holds two single beds and a large wardrobe and another television. Sigrid is on her laptop, trying to connect to the WIFI, though obviously having no success.

   “Da, this is amazing!” Tilda squeals, running over to him. “You didn’t tell us we’d be staying here!”

   “I didn’t even know myself,” Bard admits. “Where’s Bain?”

   “He’s sharing with Legolas,” Sigrid replies. “And I don’t think either of them are very happy about it.”

   Bard makes face. “I’ll have a look. Please don’t stay up too late, you two. Just because we’re in London doesn’t mean you get special bed-time privileges,” he says sternly, glaring at Sigrid, whose reputation of stay up until 1AM precedes her.

   Sigrid grins at her father and he sighs, hoping Tilda will at least abide by this rule. He will check on them later and make sure.

 Bard then goes to the other bedroom, which is like the first, except tidier. Much to his relief, Legolas and Bain are sitting on the floor together, the latter showing the small boy how to solve a Rubik’s cube, his fingers working quickly at the colours, blurring them before Legolas’ astounded eyes. The pair look up at the same time as Bard knocks quietly on the door.

   “You all right?” he asks Bain.

   Bain nods, smiling, obviously no longer displeased with his sleeping arrangements.

   “Go to bed at a reasonable time, please,” Bard warns him, referring to Legolas, who is half Bain’s age and should probably be asleep by now.

   Bain rolls his eyes and Bard takes it as a sign to leave. He returns to his own bedroom, savouring in the splendour of the hotel on his way. Passing the dining room, he sees a plate of food set out for him, but his stomach squirms unpleasantly and he dismisses it, not feeling particularly hungry.

   Thranduil is in the bedroom taking off his jacket and shoes when Bard opens the door. He raises an eyebrow, seeing his suitcase at the foot of the bed, but also Thranduil’s tucked out of the way in the walk-in closet.

   “I thought this was my room,” Bard mutters as he closes the door. He tries to play it off as a joke. It is practical for the two of them to share a room, but Bard admits he wasn’t prepared to. It slipped his mind, really, and is now dawning on him to very real and frightening effect.

   Thranduil smirks, loosening his tie and slipping it over his head, barely jostling his hair, which he tugs out of its ponytail. He looks tired. “Would you like me to leave?” he asks flippantly.

   “No,” says Bard, a little too hastily, walking over.

   Thranduil starts to unbutton his shirt, so Bard doesn’t honestly think he is to blame for the abrupt rise in tension in his throat, tightening the muscles there. He grabs Thranduil’s hand and, without taking a second to think, brings him down to a startling kiss, ardent and forceful. Thranduil responds with eagerness, his hands quick to Bard’s jawline and chin and neck as they embrace.

   They waste no time on their feet, finding each other instead in the folds of the bed and in the crooks of their elbows and knees, falling and laughing and touching, whispering in hair and against skin and into hands. Bard maps kisses against Thranduil’s neck, unbuttoning the shirt for him with fumbling hands. But Thranduil is far more skilled and almost dissolute to remove Bard’s jacket and belt and tie, his shirt and trousers soon joining the floor. Thranduil’s kisses are depraved now, and hungry, as though his wait has tarried an age, a desire growing ever fiercer in the creases of his hands. He bites at Bard’s lips, kissing hard and rough before moving to his neck and then his collarbones and then his hip bones and then…

   And Bard makes no move to reciprocate or take control, not that he could if even he wanted to. He is speechless with pleasure, his body shaking and his eyes pinpricked with spots and colours. Faster, faster. _More, more, more_. The building pressure is enough to crack his ribs and puncture his lungs and have him begging even after he has drawn his last breath. But then it is slow again and his heartbeat recedes and his body becomes calm against the sheets.

   Thranduil is soft against him, his hair like the dawning sky falling over them and his lips gentle again and forgivable; sweet and temperate and like cherries and bitter wine. He lingers long over their kisses and over Bard’s quivering gasps and shuddering whimpers and Thranduil’s fingers are like a thousand tiny stars, forming constellations against Bard’s skin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ok idk what this chapter was but it's here and queer and i hope you guys liked it n_n


	9. Solitaire

Thranduil is awake with the rising sun, the pale sky of the morning creeping through the curtains and against his eyes, another demanding day greeting him. He rolls over sleepily, thinking of responsibilities, and ignoring them pointedly. He favours instead the company that is only inches away, firm shoulders and tangled black hair.

   His body aches with exhaustion, but not unpleasantly, and Thranduil smiles to himself, his fingers ghosting over Bard’s skin, memories of last night still there in the shape of scratches and bruises. He traces the large tattoo on Bard’s back – a menacing red dragon with a body that curls and covets his muscles, moving as he does; a deadly serpent. Thranduil likes Bard’s tattoos; the teacher is a work of art that he does not tire of enjoying.

   He stirs at Thranduil’s touch, his back arching and his breathing coming in deeper, slower. Then, he cries out low, his body shrinking against the pillows in pain.

   “Oh, _fuck_ ,”

   “What’s wrong?” Thranduil’s hands are quick to offer comfort.

   “Am I… supposed to hurt this much afterwards?” Bard utters, turning over carefully to face Thranduil, his expression mortified. He does not seem to be in any debilitating agony, but rather is severely shocked by the aftermath of Thranduil’s exploits. Thranduil thinks perhaps he could have been gentler, for it had not been his intention to cause harm.

   “I’m sorry,” he whispers, chewing his lip.

   Bard chuckles. “I’m fine. It hurts, but it is only bruising - good bruising,” he declares. He raises himself over Thranduil, brushing impatient lips against his neck. “Though, it seems now I owe you double.”

   Thranduil hums languidly against his skin, savouring the sweetness. “That you are here is more than enough compensation,” he says. “Or I would simply ask a kiss for every pound I have spent for this room.”

   “And how many kisses will that amount to?”

   Bard’s lips are tender and unhurried, on Thranduil’s chest and shoulders and at the corners of his mouth, teasing him and loving him. His heart thrums and skips and jolts at every touch.

   “I do not think you would appreciate the truth,” he confesses.

   Bard stays at this, giving Thranduil a significant look, his body forming a shadow across the bed in the orange and pink of the sunrise. Thranduil is unable to resist the temptation to follow the pattern of the tattoo on Bard’s chest, and then mimicking the action on his arms and hips and ribs, for Bard’s tattoos are many and they are beautiful and Thranduil wants to know them all.

   Bard looks in a mood to argue, but it seems the energy it takes for him to hold himself up is too much, and he throws himself back onto the bed instead, groaning to almost dramatic excess. Thranduil laughs this time. It is curious, he thinks, that he does not feel the effect of last night to as much extent; his abdomen is slightly sensitive from strain and his knee feels out of place, but he is otherwise in one piece, so to speak.

   “It cannot be that bad,” he jests, sitting up. His long hair dances across his shoulders.

   Bard serves him a very bitter expression and Thranduil only laughs again, though he feels shame to have caused Bard pain. But Thranduil knows this ache and it lessens in short time and if he can bear it without a whimper, so too can Bard. He brushes his fingers through Bard’s hair, which is always surprisingly soft and curled at the ends.

   “How about a bath?” he suggests quietly.

   Bard’s eyes widen and Thranduil can see him supressing a smile.

   “Okay,” he agrees cautiously. It is still early. They will not be caught.

   They spend a long hour in the water, fingers lithe against each other’s skin, drawing patterns in the soap as the sun climbs the sky. Thranduil enjoys these easy things with Bard; enjoys the touches and tired kisses and soft words whispered like stardust across galaxies. Thranduil isn’t quite able to get a grip on his own feelings; they slip through his fingers. But he knows that he just likes Bard very much. He is like fire against snow and wind in flowering trees and he is like the half-dream when you are just about to fall asleep and it would be Thranduil’s greatest sadness to lose him.

   After drying and dressing and sharing more affection, Bard complains of hunger, having not eaten the previous night. Thranduil takes his cane and they go in search of breakfast, both of them limping, but for very diverse reasons.

   It is still early, but the two men intrude on their children, waking them up by drawing curtains and shouting of a new day. Thranduil opens the door to the bedroom where Legolas is sleeping, finding Bard’s son, Bain, lying in bed with his mobile phone illuminating his face and Legolas a small lump beneath the covers of his own, blond hair like sunshine upon his pillow.

   Thranduil lifts his cane from the floor and tip-toes to the bed, Bain watching him curiously from behind his phone. Thranduil crawls onto Legolas’ bed and smothers him, falling flat on top of his son, making him wriggle beneath the sheets and cry out.

   “Ada!”

   Thranduil laughs, deep and shaking. He rolls off Legolas and the boy’s head emerges from beneath the duvet, his blue eyes hazy from sleep and his hair still clinging to his dreams, the last of them creeping through the tresses of gold. Thranduil strokes his fingers through them, revealing his son’s face.

   “Good morning,” he says.

   Legolas gives a small _hmph_ of disapproval and sits up, rubbing sleep from his eyes. Bain also stirs, stretching his tall figure.

   “Did you sleep well?” Thranduil asks him.

   He nods, his eyes wary and heavy, indicating he likely slept very little, if at all. They have not spoken properly before, so Thranduil does not blame him for the short response, but he would like to get to know Bard’s children better. No doubt Bain is uncomfortable with the idea of Thranduil dating his father, so it is up to Thranduil to alleviate this concern.

   “What are we doing today?” Legolas inquires, tugging his father’s hair gently, as he likes to, though Thranduil does not know why.

   “I don’t know. What would like to do?”

   Legolas shrugs and then says. “I want breakfast first.”

   Thranduil nods seriously, getting up. “That’s a good idea,” he agrees. “What are you going to have?”

   “Pancakes,” Legolas replies firmly, shuffling out of the bed and dropping with a thud on his feet to the floor.

   “But you have pancakes _every time_ ,”

   “They’re good pancakes,” is all he relays before running off to the bathroom.

   Thranduil raises an eyebrow with amusement to Bain and the teenager responds with a smirk. They meet Bard outside in the sitting room, Tilda on his shoulders and Sigrid yawning at his side, mascara smudged under her eyes. Thranduil sees Bain give her a meaningful look and then point to his eyes. She goes pale and starts to rub at her own. Thranduil holds back a simper.

   “Where’s breakfast?” Tilda asks from her father’s shoulders. Thranduil can see that he is struggling under her weight on top of his… grievances.

   “Downstairs. There’s a restaurant,” he tells her.

   And breakfast is a polite affair. Tauriel and Galion join the small party, the former still in her pyjamas, having thrown a jumper over the top and shrugged dismissively when Thranduil scolded her.

   “You are one of my head representatives!” he hisses.

   “It’s _Saturday,_ ” she retorts.

   Bard drinks his atrociously strong coffee and Sigrid talks to Tauriel animatedly about her science project and Tilda asks Thranduil a lot of questions. Bain is quiet, poking at his food and drinking coffee as well, but with an expression as bitter as the beverage, which is clearly not to his taste, despite his consumption of it.

   Bard’s leg brushes Thranduil’s beneath the table moderately, just like last time. He can still feel last night’s passion in Bard fingers when they haunt over his in fleeting moments of contact. They otherwise speak very little to one another, listening instead to the others talk.

   “What time is the book-signing?” Bard asks afterwards, downing the last of his second coffee.

   “Six o’clock,” Thranduil says. “I thought we could explore London, if you like?”

   “Oh, yes!” exclaims Tilda, who has appeared at their feet. “I’ve never been to London before.”

   “It is a nice day; we can go an adventure,” Thranduil says, smiling down at her. She claps eagerly.

   They return to their rooms to dress and ready themselves for the day, the nerves of the book-signing yet to settle in stomachs and toes. Thranduil spends a few minutes picking out a tie, humming to himself. He is admittedly looking forward to spending some time with Bard’s family. It is important to him that they are a unit; he does not wish to fall into uneasy patterns of conversation, should things turn out better than he might have hoped.

   “What are you doing?” Bard says abruptly.

   Thranduil turns to face him, bewildered. “What?”

   “A tie? A suit? We’re going for a _walk_ ,”

   “What else am I supposed to wear?”

   Bard gives him a disbelieving look. “Jeans? It’s London, not Italy.”

   “I didn’t bring anything like that,” Thranduil concedes, studying the selection in the wardrobe. He didn’t bring much at all, really, except what was required for the book-signing. He takes his coat and throws it on, donning a red scarf and gloves too.

   “I see you also thought to wear something different for a change,” he says sarcastically. Bard is wearing a jumper.

   _At least it’s not ugly._

   Bard scowls and shrugs into his own coat, tucking a scarf around his neck. “I’m going to look ridiculous next to you,” he complains gruffly.

   Thranduil approaches, trying not to feel hurt at these words. He kisses Bard on the lips; once, twice, three times. He neatens the collar of Bard’s coat to a perfect crease. “You’re going to look perfect next to me,” he says, and he means it.

   A touch of colour rises to Bard’s cheeks and Thranduil smirks, kissing him just once more, adoringly. He thinks Bard is very handsome in his jumper, however inadequate he thinks it might be. They depart, collecting the children as they head out the door, still buttoning coats and tying shoes.

   “Isn’t your CEO coming with us?” asks Bard, seeing no sign of Tauriel.

   “She has business to attend to,” Thranduil explains as they take the elevator down. “She’s going to the venue to organize seating arrangements and then speak with the author.”

   “Shouldn’t you be doing that?”

   Thranduil’s lips tug at a smile, remembering their conversation from a few days ago.

   “I’m playing Solitaire today,”

   -

   The adventure in London is peaceful. The assembly take the narrow streets and find cafes and small shops to stay the cold when it becomes too much to suffer. It snows - though scarcely for it is a rarity in the city - and it turns to slush at the feet of pedestrians and cars so the footpaths are slippery and muddy and Thranduil must take care as to where he positions his cane.

   He and Bard walk close, admiring buildings and talking while the children bicker and scurry at their feet, running into shops as it pleases them and throwing grey clumps of ice at each other, the shrieks able to be heard from neighbouring streets. It is good to see them bonding, even for just a small part of today, their curiosities yoking them.

   They talk of safe things and quaint things, Thranduil and Bard; their plans for the coming summer and what their childhood’s had been like, humoured at the differences in them, yet surprised at similarities. And all the while they exchanges gentle glances, their arms jostling each other and their smiles never ceasing. And it lessens Thranduil’s tension about the city; Bard is content among the crowds and the people, and so Thranduil is a little bit more content too.

   They stop at a cafe at two o’clock and buy cakes and sweets and coffee to be warm. Legolas and Thranduil are both tired already from walking and sightseeing, but the others are lively and bristling with adrenaline, energized by their surroundings and by the newness of a weekend being spent away from home. Legolas distances himself and latches onto his father when they sit down. Thranduil understands this behaviour well, and keeps his hands near Legolas at all times, for security, should his son falter. He does not physically tire as easily as Thranduil, but mentally he withdraws and becomes sad, his eyes foggy and his shoulders slouched. Thranduil is used to it, but always he worries for Legolas.

   They return to the hotel not long afterwards to prepare themselves for the book-signing. Thranduil feels drained, his arms and legs heavy with exhaustion. He doesn’t apprehend his partiality for tiring as effortlessly as he does, but he dismisses himself from the company and retires, asking Bard to wake him in an hour.

   “Are you well?”

   “Yes, I just need to sleep,” he explains.

   And he does. He falls deep into slumber and into shadows of thought and memory and when he is awoken, it is to tender kisses, so loving and benevolent he is still smiling from them after a quick dinner downstairs and as he puts on his suit for the evening.

   Bard’s suit is grey tonight, his tie thin and black. Thranduil has always been attracted to a man in a suit and, God, when he sees Bard in one, he finally grasps why. It comes in handsomely at the waist, Bard’s figure finally accounted for as it ought to be, rather than hidden in squashy sweaters and scarves.

   “What are you staring at?”

   Thranduil starts at this and busies himself with his cufflinks, feeling suddenly hot. Bard laughs.

   “We’re going to be late!” Tauriel yells from outside, her heavy voice echoing against the doors.

   Thranduil rolls his eyes, starting to feel tested by his CEO’s tightly-wound mindset of this trip. He admits _he_ is stern when it comes to work and business, but in his mind he sees public appearances as a holiday – at least in the moments when being in public isn’t actually involved. He sees no need for pressure or commitment. And it does not matter if they are late.

   Nevertheless, he fetches his cane and coat and he and Bard are out the door, still straightening their ties.

   “I hate suits,” Bard grumbles.

   “I like them,” Thranduil counters, grinning slyly at him.

   Tauriel is at the door, tapping her foot impatiently in an impossibly high shoe, elegant and black to match her tight-fitting dress. She has a long blue coat over her shoulders and a silver handbag to match her jewellery.

   “Guys! Let’s go,” Bard bellows to the other bedrooms. His voice is like the thud of axe against kindling and it sends shudders down Thranduil’s spine.

   Tilda and Bain and Sigrid and Legolas all come bursting from their rooms, Sigrid appearing to be only half ready in a fetching juniper green frock, stuffing make-up into the pockets of her coat, and Tilda clutching her shoes, her hair curled sweetly in a half up-do. Thranduil notices that Bain is wearing the same suit as he had for Legolas’ party, only with a different tie. Legolas hastens to his father’s side, his own tie still undone.

   They all dash to the elevator and down to the foyer, Sigrid touching up the last of her make-up in the reflection of the mirrored walls and Bain tying back his hair neatly. It amazes Thranduil the striking resemblance he bears to his father, dark hair and strong jawline almost identical.

   “How are we all going to fit in the car?” Tilda asks, gazing around at the seven of them as they depart the elevator.

   Her question in answered when Tauriel is the first to walk over to a sleek, black stretch limousine, the door held open by Galion.

   “Are you kidding me?” Bard mutters under his breath, glaring at Thranduil.

   “Tilda is right; we would not all fit in a normal-sized car. It is practical,” Thranduil insists, smirking.

   “Sure,” snaps Bard sarcastically, though he is forcing back a grin.

   They clamber in, Bard’s children gazing around in awe. Thranduil never meant to leave such luxurious impressions upon them, but it seems he is quite out of his depth as to how severe the contrast is in his life and Bard’s. He did not realize their lives were so without extravagances and he feels rather awkward for it, wishing he’d had the sense to be accommodating as opposed to overwhelming.

   The drive to the venue is quiet, the steady rumble of the car the only sound, coming through their shoes and into their teeth. Thranduil sits beside Legolas and helps him with his tie, for the child can never grasp the art of it no matter how many times he is shown. He is silent, dejected somewhat. Thranduil knows he does not wish to go, but cannot bear to be parted from him while in the city. There is very little Thranduil is able to do with his son, and he does not want Legolas’ childhood to be as his had been, in his room over long nights, unable to stay the loneliness while his mother and father were out to parties and social events every weekend. He will not subject his own son to that same fate.

   “So, what are we to expect from tonight?” Bard ventures after a moment.

   Thranduil stiffens, realizing he has foolishly not debriefed Bard and his children about the evening.

   “We are on our way to the Finborough Theatre. There will be a short book reading by the author, followed by the signing, during which we are free to leave or to remain until eleven, when it ends. This will unfortunately be the case for myself, but the rest of you are, of course, not obligated to stay if you do not wish to. I can have Galion here to escort you back to the hotel.”

   “Who’s the author?” Sigrid interrupts.

   “Galadriel Alatáriel,” Thranduil replies, inclining his head graciously, his lips pulling at a smile, for Miss Alatáriel’s book is famous and there is no doubt that Sigrid has read it.

   Her reaction is as he expected; she claps her hands to her mouth, smudging her lipstick in shock and excitement.

   “You were _invited_ to this?” she very nearly squeals.

   “I published her novel. Miss Alatáriel requested I be at her book-signing, so I obliged,”

   “Will you be doing signings as well?” Tilda inquires curiously.

   Thranduil is humoured by this and he shakes his head. “I cannot subject myself to such commitments. My position in the minds of readers is on a very small scale, so I will be there for publicity purposes only. And, if I am honest, to irritate the other publishers who will be there.”

   “Why do you irritate them?” she presses.

   “They are… intimidated by my popularity.” Thranduil feels arrogant to say so, but it is the truth.

   “You can hardly be blamed for that,” says Sigrid reasonably. “Your books are refreshing and unique and very sought-after. You deserve much more than the credit you receive.”

   Thranduil is surprised at this. Very few have complimented him so sincerely.

   They arrive a few minutes after this exchange, pulling up to a tall theatre, orange brick and green-painted entrance on a curved street. It is three stories high, sweetly arranged and quaint inside, warm against the chill of the winter night and bustling with people. Galion takes the limousine away, leaving Thranduil and the others to navigate themselves. Preferably far away from the photographers who can be seen skulking in the shadow of the building, their collars up against the cold and their cameras catching the light of the theatre windows.

   Tauriel takes the lead of the group, putting on her sternest CEO expression, her heels clicking against the pavement and then silent against thick carpet. She weaves expertly through the crowd of other exclusive guests, pushing passed them in the cramped space to the front of the line, Thranduil and the others at her back. He spots many people he knows and recognizes and slips passed them hopefully unnoticed, hardly in the mood for conversation with such people; other book publishers and authors come to turn their noses up at him and derisively congratulate him with thin voices and pursed lips. They are all bitter at his success; Thranduil has never met anyone who genuinely likes him.

   Except perhaps Bard, though even there he has his doubts.

   Bard has hardly glanced at Thranduil since they got into the limousine and he hopes this is not a bad omen. He does not wish to be overbearing, but he longs to reach out and feel his fingers against Bard’s. Thranduil resists, however, remembering his promise to Legolas. It will be difficult, he thinks, for a while, but Thranduil must put his family first. The rest will follow when they are ready for it.

   They climb the carpeted stairs to the second floor. Tauriel hands the woman at the door seven tickets and they are led to the front row of the theatre, a clear view of the stage before them. Sigrid is almost skipping with excitement, and Thranduil is glad to see it.

   “This is amazing,” whispers Tilda, dropping into a seat.

   Thranduil sits between Bard and Legolas, who is at the end of the row, fidgeting with his tie. Thranduil extends a hand to calm him, curling golden hair around his small ears. Then Thranduil leans across the seat and rests a kiss upon his head sympathetically.

   “You can leave afterwards if you wish,” he murmurs, knowing it will be better for Legolas to go to bed early tonight.

   “It’s okay. I want to be here with you,” Legolas rebuts.

   This makes Thranduil’s heart warm and he kisses the top of his son’s head once more.

   It takes a while for the theatre to fill and the reading to begin. Tauriel leaves and comes back with drinks and Thranduil’s fingers creep the edge of his seat in search of Bard’s, and are met zealously, entwining and touching and exchanging a thousand silent words.

   When the theatre grows dark and the stage is illuminated with yellow light, the author is greeted to thunderous applause, which is considerable given the small size of the audience and consists mostly of upper-class publishers and writers and people who won tickets online. Thranduil attempts to clap with the rest of them, but he knocks his elbow against the armrest in the process and his left arm spasms, leaving it useless and his right arm holding his glass. He curses his disability, for now he can’t even return to Bard’s fingers.

   Galadriel Alatáriel is grace and poise and beauty like moonlight and waterfalls, her hair bearing a stunning resemblance to silk and her features timeless despite her age. She reads with a voice like silver and biting wind and has her audience enraptured, the sequel to her first book leaving Sigrid on the edge of her seat. She reads for almost an hour, and then introduces the illustrator to her novel who brought her imagination to life with intriguing and marvellous drawings between the words and pages of the book. The artist is a woman named Vitoria, her face handsome and her cheeks smiling. She is slightly shorter than Galadriel, but no less supple in her movements, well-contrasted with the author, like they are fire and water and sun and rain. She enjoys her brief time on the stage as they exchange a few words and then bid the audience farewell.

   There is an interval and the audience spill out onto the street to smoke or to the bar to drink while the theatre is prepared for the signing. Thranduil mentally readies himself for arduous small talk, dreading words with other publishers who want his business and authors who wish to tarnish his name. He grips his cane tightly, his heart like a drum in his chest.

   “Are you all right?” Bard asks him, their shoulders brushing.

   “Yes. I just loathe these public appearances,” he confesses, sighing.

    It goes this way for a long time, the beginnings of the evening sluggish and echoing like a building migraine. Thranduil speaks with person after person, each conversation wearing him down, his elbow aching a little more with every handshake and the grip on his cane tightening with every curt goodbye. Tauriel hovers among the conversations, her memory accounting for Thranduil’s when it fails him, for he hardly takes the time to memorize who all these people are.

   He has Legolas and Bard’s children meet Galadriel and Vitoria and their joy lifts his spirits for the passing of a moment before it is diminished again. They then decide to leave, seeing little chance for enjoyment in hanging around for the signing to finish. Thranduil has Galion pick them up. Bard stays.

   “Why must you stay until the end?” he asks Thranduil. The signing has begun and they are with various other representatives and company-owners, sitting to the side of a table where Galadriel is smiling and flourishing her hand for signatures on books and papers, chatting pleasantly with her fans. Some of them approach Thranduil and the others for an autograph or to ask a question, but mostly they are ignored, left to drink wine and look bored and haughty.

   “Publicity,” Thranduil mutters tensely. He flexes his knee for a moment, finally starting to feel all those hours on his feet.

   He catches Bard’s eye and reflects his agony in them. Eager he is to return to the hotel; to comforts of skin and sleep. Bard responds to him by taking his hand for a moment, relaying empathy in the way that he does, and his fingers leaving a paragraph of sweetness against creases of Thranduil’s palms.

   Then, Bard leans in slightly. “Would you like a drink?” he murmurs.

   Thranduil is about to decline, but he sees a look in Bard’s eye; a hint of mischief only witnessed in darkness and in feverish passion. There is no indication in them of going to the bar.

   They excuse themselves expertly; first Thranduil, and then Bard seconds later, and they leave their coats to indicate their return. They disappear backstage, creeping among props and sets and costumes hung high into the rafters and windows. They duck beneath ropes and slip through doors until the noise of the theatre and the people is a dull whisper through the floorboards. And then they find themselves against a dressing table, its mirror cracked in several places and its counter chipped in the corners, littered with make-up and prosthetic flowers and hair pins.

   They fumble in the darkness, laughing, kisses clumsy and adoring and rough against jaw and neck and cheekbone. Bard’s hands are always surprisingly gentle, handling Thranduil with love and with care. Usually he would not object to brashness or bruises, but Bard’s lithe fingerprints bristle with electricity and it is exactly enough. Thranduil feels it all.

   He can feel the dresser pressing uncomfortably into his lower back and moves to change his position, releasing his grip for a second. He slips on something, and falls forward. His head lands with a smack against the counter and phosphenes blur his vision with red and green until it is black, and then there is nothing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry the update took so long. I truly procrastinated this chapter to the best of my abilities. But good news! We have a plot! Which is very exciting because I have 'plotless fluff' down to a fine art. I'd also like to apologize for my lack of dialogue. It's not something I'm good at, but I'm working on it.  
> Also, I'd like to extend a special mention to the 'extra' in this chapter by the name of Vitoria, who joking requested to be included in this fic, and was promptly taken seriously. If you have a spare minute, you can check out her marvelous [Harry Potter fanart](http://surpriseharrypotterart.tumblr.com/) , [instagram](http://instagram.com/basvii/), [society6](http://society6.com/vitoriabas) and [tumblr](http://bloodyhellharry.tumblr.com/)  
> and of course, if you have any questions, feel free to ask me on [tumblr](http://queerteddy.tumblr.com/ask) :)


	10. Haldir

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Trigger Warning for hospitals.**

Darkness does not endure, for it is just the passing of a shadow. Without light it cannot even be.   

   And the blackness meets its end in unsettled silence; like a whimper of rain after the storm is over. Thranduil opens his eyes to foggy white and blue, the smell of anaesthetic assailing his senses, prickling his skin. He hears footsteps and plastic wheels against plastic floors, and then beeping; the slow and measured pace of a heartbeat. But it all seems far away, like he is on another plane of existence, watching himself wake up.

   He feels the coarse bed coverings and various wires and tubes in places they have no right to be and it is all excruciatingly familiar to him, like the flashback of a memory he cannot control. There is white above and blue around and the beeping of the heart monitor burns at his fingertips, bringing him back from wherever he has been.

   His head hurts. A lot.

   “You’re awake,” Thranduil vaguely recognizes the voice that speaks; it is feminine and deep and gentle.

   “Fuck.” He tries to sit up, but his arms and chest are heavy, and he has a neck-brace, which is unfortunate.

   Perhaps it is better lying down anyway; lying down is easy.

   “How are you feeling?”

   To his right is a woman, fair and beautiful with long dark hair piled high on her head and thick-framed glasses on her nose. She studies a clipboard. Thranduil does not know her, but feels as though he should, like they have met once before, a hundred years ago, and he has simply forgotten her. Through his hazy vision he sees her name badge: Arwen.

   “What happened?” he mumbles. He has flickers of memory; the yellow light of the dressing room, Bard’s hair between his fingers, and a splitting pain in his head. Pain that is still there, pounding with his blood like it is trying to crack open his skull.

   He manages to move his hand to feel the back of his head against the pillow, but his fingers find only bandages there, tight around what seems to be a very significant lump. He lets his right arm drop to his side again and glances to the woman, Arwen, awaiting an answer.

   “You hit your head,” is all she says, shrugging her shoulder and fighting back a smile. She seems amused, but Thranduil cannot decipher why. “Quite impressively too; there’s some significant bruising, but thankfully no open wound. But, before we get to that, I’m going to ask you a few questions, okay?”

   “Okay.” He supposes doctors have procedures to follow. Thranduil doesn’t know; he’s not a doctor.

   Arwen asks him simple questions like what his name is and what day it is and where he had been that evening. He answers them all without faltering and she shines a small torch in his eyes and confirms he has no concussion. He feels disoriented, however, and wants desperately to go home. Hospitals makes Thranduil nervous; its electricity and anaesthetic feeds on him, seeping into his pores and poisoning him with recollections he rather not explore.

   When Arwen is finished assessing him, she says; “The MRI will be ready soon to scan you for any spinal injuries or head trauma. Are you in any pain at all?”

   “My head hurts,” Thranduil answers, though he believes this will not be news to her.

   Arwen hums with laughter, delicate and gentle like a song, and she lifts a sheet on the clipboard, smacking her lips together thoughtfully. Her brow furrows, then, at what she reads.

   “You have Cerebral Palsy.” It isn’t really a question.

   Thranduil says nothing; it is the last thing he wants to think about. If it hadn’t been for his disability, he would never have fallen, and he would not have ruined a perfectly good evening.

   _God, what must Bard think of me?_

   It is a long three hours at the hospital. Thranduil is scanned and checked and double-checked for any internal injuries and deemed sound. However, his disability was triggered badly in the fall and his left side is rigid and inflamed, inflicting grief where there ought to be no cause for it. His elbow is cramped awkwardly against him and his leg twitches at odd intervals, almost as if it is trying to turn back on after a power-outage.

   Arwen and the other doctors are reluctant to discharge him, but Thranduil flatly refuses to stay. He knows his body and he knows when it needs care and now is not one of those times. When they agree at last to let him leave by promise of a phone call if anything goes wrong, he is dismissed into a wheelchair, uncomfortable and embarrassing like a throne designed specifically to humiliate him.

   “Ada!”

   In a blur of black and soft blond hair, Thranduil is quite nearly pummelled by Legolas in the emergency room, his shirt almost immediately soaked through with tears as the boy clambers onto his lap and clings to him, sadness in him that Thranduil cannot bear; cannot bring himself to accept, for no child of his should ever be sorrowful.

   He comforts Legolas with his right hand, stroking golden hair and wiping away stray tears. He imagines Legolas has been very distressed, though this only makes Thranduil feel worse. He admits, however, that he did not expect to see his son here.

   Looking up, he sees Bard, face lined and tired and his hair falling out from its neat bun. He is still wearing his suit and looks exhausted, but relieved. His fingers are quick to find Thranduil’s, but his attention is on Arwen at the helm of the wheelchair, eager for news; good or bad.

   “He’s okay,” she says, though her attention is on Legolas, curiosity in her fine features. “The trauma to his head has affected his Cerebral Palsy, so it may be some time before he recovers full use of his left side.”

   She does not directly say so, but Arwen is telling Bard that Thranduil will require full-time care until he regains the use of his limbs. He knows this way that doctors speak; never quite addressing the issue at hand when the affected person is around should they remark upon something sensitive, which they are warranted to do. Thranduil tries not to be sour for he knows she means well. He will tell Bard to go home before there is talk of assistance.

   They exchange a few more words and Bard thanks Arwen, taking the wheelchair and pushing heavily on it to direct Thranduil from the hospital. Legolas stays on his lap and he tugs at Thranduil’s hair, which for once is tangled and messy. He feels like shit.

   “I’ve been so worried. They wouldn’t let me in to see you,” Bard mutters as they leave the emergency room and out into the night time, where the moon is cast over with thick clouds and the wind is a bitter chill in Thranduil’s bones, biting at his knee and fingers.

   He twists his head around to see which hospital he is leaving. It is Saint Mary’s, and with sudden clarity he remembers Arwen, for it had been she who had supervised Legolas’ birth, here in this same hospital. Thranduil feels badly now for not recalling sooner. She must have thought him very haughty.

   “Have you been here this whole time?” Thranduil asks Bard.

   The teacher leans down and very, very gently kisses the top of Thranduil’s head. “Of course; I would not leave you.” He pushes Thranduil down to the parking lot where the Jaguar is parked, standing out comically among the Mini Cooper’s and SUV’s. “Legolas, why don’t you go and open the car?”

   Legolas takes the keys from Bard eagerly and scrambles off his father’s lap, in better spirits now that everything is as it should be, the agonies of the last three hours already forgotten. The car beeps unlocked and Bard helps Thranduil with getting into the back seat. He folds the wheelchair and puts it in the trunk and Legolas jumps into the backseat.

   “What happened, Ada?”

   Thranduil tucks blond tresses behind Legolas’ ear. “Nothing. I just hit my head,” he says.

   “But why can’t you walk?”

   Thranduil’s stomach plummets at this and he holds his shaking hand still against his leg. “You know that my left side isn’t very good? Well, the bump made it worse for a little while.”

   “Does this mean Bard is going to stay and look after you?” Legolas asks excitedly, just as Bard gets into the car. Thranduil catches him smiling in the rear-view mirror, but does not return it.

   “Where is Galion?” he inquires, deciding to ignore his son’s question.

   “I told him to stay at the hotel,” says Bard, putting the car into reverse.

   “Why?”

   “Because I’m here,”

   “You are under no obligation to be,”

   Bard halts the car at this, jolting them all. He turns in his seat and gives Thranduil a meaningful look.

   “You want me to leave?” he collects, eyebrows knitted together.

   Thranduil chews his lip, fighting his gut-feeling. He does not want Bard to leave. He could never send Bard away. But he does not wish to be a burden any longer; he has caused enough anguish to those he loves, and he does not wish to add Bard to such a category.

   However, he forces his head to shake, looking down. There is a pause and the car moves again. Legolas returns to his father’s lap, playing with his hair, and it is a comfort far greater than any anaesthetic.

   The drive to the hotel is silent and when they arrive, Legolas is taken to bed. Bard lifts him up in his arms and carries him, half-asleep, to the bedroom. And Thranduil is curious, for they seem strangely relaxed with each other and he wonders what might have happened between them during the three hours in the hospital waiting room. It is good at least one small thing is of positive value after such turmoil.

   Bard returns to wheel Thranduil to their room. They do not speak, both of them lost in their own thoughts.

   Thranduil is tired; his eyes are heavy and his limbs ache beyond that of his condition. There is a misery deep in his bones. It is the type of tired no sleep could ever hope to compensate.

   Bard helps him ready for bed, hands and fingers guarded and gentle, as though he is afraid of hurting Thranduil further, though the latter knows such a thing to be impossible.

   And still they do not speak; do not dare to voice what is suddenly plaguing both their minds. Thranduil’s disability has never impacted him as part of a couple so greatly for such a long time and it brings with it only viscious memories of being unable to dance with his wife or play with Legolas as the park, and the car accident he had caused seven years ago.

   Hitting his head reminds him now only of the inconvenience he places Bard in, and of his inability to be someone that Bard deserves. 

   When they at last get into bed, it is 2AM. Thranduil then decides to speak, for there is a large gap in his retention between hitting his head and waking up in hospital. He asks Bard what happened.

   “You slipped on a feather boa,” he says, his eyes not meeting Thranduil’s. “And – and I wanted to catch you, but I just… went into shock… and you fell so quickly I didn’t have time to think and…”

   Thranduil presses a finger to Bard’s lips to cut him off and he feels their softness and breathing like a hurricane against his skin.

   “It is not your fault,” he whispers. “I ought to have been more careful. What then?”

   Bard chews his lip. “I called Tauriel and we got you out of there safely. I figured you wouldn’t want any attention drawn to yourself, but you were still unconscious so… I had to call emergency.”

   Thranduil groans. That was bad. Not only was he physically crippled by his disability for a few days, but now the entire country was going to know about it. No doubt he will be the laughing stock of _Arkenstone Magazine_ in the coming issue. Thorin Oakenshield had been at the book-signing, the desperate tabloid-owner always eager to attend such events should he get his ugly hands on any exclusive gossip for his pathetic magazine, which bled news of celebrities and upper-class England with insensitive vigour.

   “Did anyone see me?” Thranduil asks, unsure if he wants to know the answer.

   “I don’t think so. You were unconscious still when the ambulance showed up, so you were inside by the time anyone figured out it was here for someone in the theatre. But I imagine they drew their conclusions.” Bard’s face is apologetic. Thranduil wishes it wasn’t. This was a nightmare.

   “How did Legolas come to be at the hospital?”

   “I called Galion to let him know what had happened. Legolas overheard and demanded to be there, so Tauriel left and Galion dropped him off with your car. Then I told him to go back; he seemed tired and rather distraught,” Bard replies.

   Thranduil’s lips play at a small smile. “He doesn’t like hospitals,” he says.

   “I take it you don’t either?”

   Thranduil’s face falls. No, he doesn’t.

   “I always wondered, though; you have all this money, why don’t you just get it corrected?” Bard continues.

   Thranduil’s breath catches in his throat. “What do you mean?”

   “Your disability; I’m sure it can be fixed?”

   Thranduil becomes heated at this, glaring at Bard.

   “Fixed? I am not broken!”

   “I didn’t mean… I’m sorry…” Bard is taken aback by Thranduil’s sudden fury and he stutters over his words.

   “Cerebral Palsy is a disability; a condition,” Thranduil explains tersely, trying to calm down, for it is better to educate than to shout, though the temptation is great. “It distorts messages from the brain and affects physical movement. It cannot be ‘fixed’ to meet an abled-person’s standards; it is what it is and it does not make me lesser than those who do not have it.”

   “I’m sorry,” again, and then, “I did not mean to cause offence; I only sought to understand.”

   “It’s fine,”

   With difficulty, Thranduil manages to turn onto his left side and away from Bard, ending the conversation. And he falls into a troubled sleep, his simultaneous guilt for inconveniencing Bard and resentment at what he said gnaws at Thranduil’s stomach and weighs heavily on his chest and his last thought before sleep is just wishing he wasn’t the way that he was.

-

   In the morning, packing is quick and silent. Thranduil sits on the sofa in the main room and sulks, unable to assist or be of any use, which only worsens his foul mood. He does not speak unless spoken to. His head still aches dully and his leg is extremely stiff, though he has regained some movement in his arm now that he is rested, if only poorly.

   Bard and his children leave with Galion to Kings Cross to take the train home. Bard is the last of them to depart the hotel, his eyes lingering on Thranduil’s despondently. He stands awkwardly at the sofa and Thranduil wishes he could stand, too, and maybe share just one last kiss. It feels as though they are saying goodbye forever.

   “I’m sorry,” Bard says once more. After a pause, he adds; “Would you like me to come over tonight? I don’t want you to be on your own…”

   “No,” Thranduil snaps defensively. “No, I don’t need looking after.”

   He does, but he will not admit it. But Bard is under no obligation to take care of him. He has his children and his job and his life and Thranduil has no right to be a burden upon it.

   Bard opens his mouth to say something else, but obviously thinks better of it, and with a turn of his heel he is out the door, the goodbye never said, but felt very deeply.

   When Galion returns, he finishes packing for Thranduil while Legolas wanders about the hotel suite nonchalantly, looking for something interesting enough to take home with him. He does not seem overly affected by the events of last night, but Thranduil can see in the messy curls of his hair that the worry has been hard on him, if only in secret dreams and restless sleep.

   “Sir, Bard left something behind.” Galion approaches, holding a truly unsightly orange and brown sweater.

   Thranduil sighs and requests it be packed with the rest of his belongings. Perhaps he will drop it off at school when he is able to walk again.

   The car ride home is long and dreary and Thranduil drifts in and out of wakefulness, assisted by painkillers for his head and the humming warmth of the car. Legolas lies across his lap, furiously smashing the buttons of an electronic hand-held game. Next to him is an ivory figurine of a horse and its rider, a souvenir from the hotel. Thranduil wonders if the management there will eventually notice the way their things go missing every time he and his son stay in London.

   He thinks of Bard and their severe farewell and it leaves a sour taste in Thranduil’s mouth. He isn’t often conflicted by decisions, finding them relatively easy to make as he chooses the logical answer more than he doesn’t. But the logical decision about Bard is not a path Thranduil wishes to follow, for the result will not make him happy. But what will make Bard happy? Thranduil is uncertain, for he does not rightly believe he himself can achieve Bard's happiness, but he wants to dreadfully.

   “When will Mister Bowman stay with us again?” asks Legolas, his bright eyes glancing up at his father.

   Thranduil takes a moment to answer. Perhaps it is a good omen that Legolas is so attached to his teacher. Or perhaps it is just wishful thinking on Thranduil’s part.

   “I don’t know,” he replies honestly and dejectedly.

   Not long after this, he feels his phone vibrating intensely in his jacket. He retrieves it and reads the caller ID, which tells him it is Bard ringing. For a moment Thranduil considers answering it, but he is a fool, he thinks, to believe that he could ever be the one to make Bard happy. He has nothing to offer except money and status and a troublesome disability; his wife had learned that the hard way.

   He lets it go to voicemail, but no message is left.

   It is early afternoon when they arrive in Burn Bridge. Snow has fallen thickly while they were away and Thranduil’s driveway requires attending to. It is good to be home, however, regardless of the mess Thranduil’s friend has likely left while house-sitting and taking care of Archimedes for the weekend.

   Haldir has been Godfather to Legolas and friend to Thranduil for many years and is inarguably one of Thranduil's only friends outside of work and school. They have an odd relationship, however, for Haldir’s life is far less grand than Thranduil’s and he avoids any publicity concerning the latter, which puts a strain on their friendship as they do not go out together. But Thranduil loves him dearly nonetheless and he is a fine sight to see at the door in his sweatpants and holey jumper, clearly hung-over and sensitive to loud noises. He shivers in the cold and squints at the sunlight.

   “I broke a bowl and drank _a lot_ of your wine,” he confesses without saying hello. He does not even question why Thranduil is in a wheelchair, though eyes it with interest. This is how most of their greetings go when he has been house-sitting. Haldir often leaves Thranduil’s property in some sort of disrepair, but Thranduil tolerates it, for his goat will not tolerate anyone else.

   “Not the Rinadli eighty-six?” Thranduil exclaims exasperatedly, thinking of his poor cellar and of his wine.

   “Short bottle? With a white and gold label?”

   “I’m taking that out of your pay,” Thranduil snaps crossly, wheeling himself forward with some difficulty, but successfully running over Haldir’s foot as he intended. The other man yelps and then clutches his head, his headache probably as bad as Thranduil’s.

   “What the hell happened to you?” he finally asks, taking the wheelchair to relieve Thranduil’s arm and entering the house.

   “Hit my head,”

   “What did you do that for?”

   “It wasn't intentional! Don’t you have somewhere to be?” Thranduil does not truly want him to leave, but more mess would not be preferable.

   Haldir shrugs. “No,” he says.

   “Do you want me to put you somewhere, then? Like a coffin?” Thranduil teases.

   “Fight me, old man, I can take you.” Haldir pretends to deliver a blow to Thranduil’s head, but it is not even acknowledged.

   He pushes Thranduil passed the kitchen, where there is a considerable mess of food and crisp packets and empty wine bottles. Legolas is with them, already scouring the leftovers for he is not used to so much unhealthy food in his home and it tempts him.

   “So how was it?” Haldir asks as he and Thranduil seat themselves on the sofas in the lounge area. He is unusually strong and assists Thranduil’s departure from the wheelchair by lifting him up completely and dropping him into the sofa. Thranduil cringes slightly at the unexpected touch, but thanks him for it, for once no so averse to being helped.

   “The book-signing? Adequate, until I ended up in hospital,”

   Haldir’s brow knits at this, which, in his terms, is a sympathetic gesture.

   “Must’ve been a nasty fall; how did it happen?” he remarks.

   Thranduil tries not to blush. “I was in a slightly…” he lowers his voice so Legolas will not hear. “… _compromised_ position backstage of the theatre. I slipped on a feather boa and hit my head on the dresser.”

   “Things with ‘Mister Teacher’ are going well, then?” Haldir quips, smirking.

   Thranduil says nothing at this, his heart constricting slightly. He does not want to speak of Bard and changes the topic by telling Legolas off for trying to sneak the crisps from the kitchen counter, requesting he eat a piece of fruit instead. Legolas scowls and grabs something from the fruit-bowl, which contains a banana and an artichoke, but now just the artichoke.

   Haldir leaves not long after their conversation, simpering and winking at Thranduil, amused by his endeavours, though the enthusiasm not shared. Disarray in the kitchen and the spare bedroom is left for Galion to begrudgingly clean and while Thranduil begins slowly unpacking, he find’s Bard’s jumper in his suitcase. It is soft; made of real cashmere, and Thranduil cannot resist putting it on, for it is warm and pleasant and it smells of Bard. It is a coy schoolboy trait and Thranduil hates it for how cliché it is, but also he revels in it, only for a moment, as it makes him feel better and worse about Bard at the same time.

    He goes outside and sits with Archimedes, feeding the goat carrots and reading dull emails on his mobile phone. And Thranduil ignores another call from Bard as it comes in, staring at the caller ID sullenly. He wants to be left alone, no matter the consequences he will face when he finally does answer his phone. He cannot disregard Bard forever, and does not think he could bring himself to anyway, no matter his self-doubt.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all again for your uplifting comments and kudos! I've been forgetting to mention how much they truly do mean to me, which is a lot. I feel like I ought to apologize for this chapter because I don't really know what it is, but I pinky-promise a bit more liveliness in the next. It will be good to write from Bard's perspective again.  
> I feel like I write in guest-appearances in this fic, which is strange, but expect Haldir and Arwen to make a comeback. Maybe. We'll see. Anyway. Hope you enjoyed! Any questions, feel free to contact me [here](http://queerteddy.tumblr.com/ask).


	11. Benvolio and Mercutio

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Plotless fluff that leads up to the next chapter. I have no excuse for myself but I hope it's okay. Thank you all again for your comments and kudos!

The earth is white and grey with snow and slush and mud and intensely spiteful in the chill of Monday morning. Bard exits the heat of his truck very reluctantly, shuffling into Ashville College looking something like that of a brown bat in his large coat and scarf and jumpers. It seems for the two days he spent in London he had forgotten what is was like to truly experience freezing temperatures. It was far too below zero for even his comfort.

   He trudges into the teacher’s lounge for coffee, grumbling and cursing and giving stiff nods to the other teachers there, who all look as miserable as Bard feels. He slept poorly that night, his bed empty and his dreams occupied and troubled. He checks his phone for the umpteenth time that morning, hoping for a message or call from Thranduil only to have his optimism smothered again.

   He doesn’t understand it – why Thranduil will not speak to him. Had he done something wrong? Said something wrong, surely, but apologized very profusely and honestly. Bard can only say he is sorry so many times.

   But still Thranduil does not answer calls or messages and still Bard worries and frets and grows distracted. The day ticks on even though it feels like Bard’s life has stopped and he continues to stress and become forgetful, calling on students by the wrong names and snapping the chalk in his efforts to write steadily.

   And all the while Legolas is silent during lessons, not meeting Bard’s eyes and trying not to flinch at the papers being thrown at him. But, when the bell chimes at last for the day’s end, he is at Bard’s desk, soundless and small, and it is now they are able to share in familiarity and be comfortable around each other again.

   “Are you okay, Legolas?” Bard asks, sitting down at his desk.

   Legolas looks down at his feet, and then up at Bard, and then down at his feet again. He shrugs.

   “How’s your father?” Bard attempts to be delicate about this.

   “He’s still in the wheelchair,” the boy declares slowly and with a bothered expression.

   “Are you looking after him?”

   Legolas’ lips flirt at a smile.

   “I read to him and made him breakfast today,” he says proudly, casting his gaze up to his teacher now.

   Bard grins. “Oh, yeah? What did you make him?”

   “Toast.” Legolas pauses. “With marmite.”

_At least his son knows what to put on a piece of bread._

There is a brief pause in the conversation.

   “I saw Amras teasing you again; do you want me to speak with him?” Bard offers this as a friend, not a teacher.

   Legolas shakes his head and Bard does not press the issue, for it is not his business unless Legolas wishes it to be. Instead he comes upon a different idea and opens a drawer in his desk, retrieving a battered book without a front cover. His fingers ghost over a tear in the page before he hands it to the child.

   “Will you give this to your father? I forgot to return it,”

   Legolas nods and opens his mouth as if to say something, but then leaves, obviously deciding against it.  As usual, he does not say goodbye.

   Bard didn’t do anything petty or cliché like leave a note or letter in the book. It is just a reminder; a reminder to Thranduil of things that cannot be said, only felt, and perhaps a subtle invitation to call back so that Bard might not appear as pathetic as he feels when he checks his mobile phone every two minutes. 

   After arriving home, arguing with Sigrid about dying her hair pink, making soup for dinner, helping Tilda fix the hem of her favourite dress and correcting an extraordinary amount of tests, Bard does eventually get a call from Thranduil. He excuses himself to his room and tactfully lets the phone ring for a while, composing his thoughts, unsure of what to say when he will answer. He is upset with himself to have offended Thranduil, but also slightly peeved at being so harshly snubbed for a reason he does not fully comprehend. Bard only wishes to offer his help and relay that he is there for Thranduil, because that is what you do when you… when you enjoy someone’s company.

   “Hello?” Bard forces his words passed the lump in his throat. He sits down on his bed because his knees are shaking.

   “Why did you give me your book?” Thranduil’s voice is quiet, like the passing of a whisper in shadow or wind. But it brings warmth to Bard’s chest and neck and it is almost as if everything is all right again.

   “I wanted to talk to you,” he replies delicately. He must be soft for it seems the world has not been so kind to Thranduil in his absence.

   “Talk,”

   Bard winces at this, the hostile exterior of Thranduil becoming a very shocking reality to him. So long has he experienced Thranduil’s compassionate side that Bard forgot quite how stern he can be.

   “I’m sorry again about what I said,” he says, ignoring the way his heart tightens in his chest with anxiety. “It was out of line, and I didn’t mean to upset you.”

   Thranduil sighs wistfully into the receiver. “It’s fine, Bard. I am not angry with you.”

   “Then why haven’t you called me? Is there something else I did wrong? Please, tell me and I will make amends!” Bard doesn’t want to be desperate, but it is fast becoming his only discretion in terms of mollifying Thranduil. It is a hungry man’s plea for love.

   “You’ve done nothing wrong,” Thranduil returns, his voice steady as water on sand but still unsuitably quiet. “I just wanted to be left alone.”

   “But I’ve been so worried,” Bard confesses, twisting his fingers into his jumper. It is a tense habit that he has unconsciously developed. “I wanted to know that you were safe.”

   “I’m perfectly fine. I do not need anyone fussing over me,”

   “Why do you say that? You know I will worry no matter your consent! Care and concern for another person does not require permission; it comes as it chooses and ignoring my phone calls won’t stop it,”

   Thranduil says nothing and Bard bites down against his growing temper, only to have it extinguished with sorrow. He wants Thranduil to understand, but it seems his communications skills are faltering. Still, Bard is not one to give up without a fight.

   “I _want_ to worry about you, Thranduil. It’s not an obligation or a duty; it’s an honour and a privilege and I will not sacrifice us for the sake of some peace of mind,”

   “Is there even an ‘us’?” Thranduil cuts in, his tone hard now. “We’ve known each other for three weeks; what does that even qualify ‘us’ for? What does that make us? After everything I have already put you through, the expression ‘bail early’ has never been more applicable.”

   Bard tries not to notice the way his heart is struggling, but he feels it. God, he feels it.

   “What are you trying to say?” he utters, barely able to speak.

   “I’m trying to say that I am in no position to be flirting with the idea of a relationship. I have nothing to offer except my own misery and emotional cargo and that is no way to build any sort of companionship. I –” Thranduil’s words catch, as though he is on the verge of tears. “– I do not want someone else to pay the price for my burden.”

   “Do you not think we might actually be good for one another? We have both lost someone and maybe that means we have something worth taking a chance on! Damn what coincidences you may think are possible; no burden of yours will ever be an inconvenience to me. I would gladly share your troubles and aches a thousand times over if it meant I could relieve you of them even just for a second.

   “I have hurt as you have hurt, and I cannot even begin to describe how persistently I too have avoided relationships and affection and lo – and love. But I think it’s time I moved on from that and… and I would ask only that I could move on with you, because it was you who helped me to realize it.”

   Bard can hear Thranduil holding back tears on the other line and his heart feels as though it might break a rib from the impact it makes against his chest. He waits, teeth clenched and hands trembling.

   “You would take such a chance on me?” Thranduil finally says, his voice thick.

   Bard’s heart slows gradually. “Of course,” he confirms. “May I remind you that it was you who started this; you cannot get rid of me so easily.”

   Thranduil hums briefly with mirth. “I wasn’t trying to… get rid of you.”

   “Then what were you trying to do?” Bard falls back on his bed, feeling his heart rate cease its antics and the adrenaline leaving his body.

   “I don’t know,” Thranduil admits. “I suppose I’m… frightened.”

   “Of what?”

   “Of losing something I haven’t even had the opportunity to have yet,”

   Bard smiles at this. “Can I see you tomorrow, then?”

   “No,”

   “Why not?”

   “I am not yet recovered,”

   “My point still stands,”

   “Bard, please; I do not need looking after,”

_He’s impossible._

   “Yes, you do. I’ll bring the kids; we’ll have dinner and watch a film,”

   “It’s a school night,” Thranduil argues weakly.

   Bard is not so quickly defeated. “We’ll stay the night, then, and put those rooms to good use for once. Galion wouldn’t mind taking the kids to school if I take Legolas?”

   “No, but –”

   “It’s settled. I’ll see you at four tomorrow?”

   “Bard!”

   He hangs up before Thranduil can provide any decent sort of debate, which had been likely to occur given his reputation for such extremes.

   Bard receives a text message from him seconds later.

-          _I hate you._

   He sends back a little heart.

-

“Da, you are so infatuated!”

   Bard turns to his eldest daughter after throwing her suitcase into the back of his truck. He stares at her, seeking an explanation. It is only right, he believes, that they go to Thranduil’s home and ensure his needs are met. It’s what… _boyfriends_ do.

   “How long are we staying at his house for?” Sigrid continues, getting into the car with her siblings.

   Bard follows suite. “I’m not sure,” he admits. “Until Thranduil is better, I suppose, or when he sends us away.”

   Bain groans in the passenger seat, slumping forward moodily, clearly unimpressed by his father’s readiness to sacrifice his family’s time for the sake of someone he just met.

   Bard sighs. “Look, I know this is all a bit much, but I’m still trying to… make something out of this,” he explains wearily, an odd pressure resting against his throat. “I haven’t felt this way about somebody since your mother and I think this is a chance for us to have something good again.”

   “What’s wrong with what we’ve already got?” Sigrid inquires, her eyebrows arched high.

   “Nothing!” Bard uses a defensive approach. He must be sensitive about this. “What I mean is that I like Thranduil very much and… for once in my life I want to be selfish. I’m not trying to ruin or upset this family; I’m just trying to accept this for what it is.”

   Hoping this will be enough to give his children something to dwell upon, Bard takes them to Thranduil’s home in Burn Bridge, its magnificence far more grand in the daytime when the snow is translucently white and the trees are trees, not ominous shadows with creeping fingers. Bard can only imagine how beautiful the gardens must be in the springtime, and he cannot wait to witness it for himself.

   Galion answers the door, his smile careful and his eyes tired. He takes their belongings upstairs where the rooms have been ‘prepared.’

   “Prepared?” Bard repeats bewilderedly.

   “We had the empty rooms finally attended to,” Galion clarifies simply. “We purchased beds and wardrobes and the like, so you will be quite comfortable here.”

   Bard manages to blurt out a thank-you at this, his stomach twisting guiltily. He had not expected Thranduil to go to such an effort on his and his family’s behalf, especially for only one night.

   Thranduil is in the dining room, which is located to the side of the kitchen through a door, separated from the lounge area. It is elegant and spacious with ornate wallpaper and a glistening chandelier and an impressive glass-top table, surrounding by a dozen chairs of velvet and redwood. It appears to be a room more for show than practical use, but today its table is littered with papers and pens and laptops and books balanced precariously on briefcases and coffee mugs. Tauriel is there, dressed formally in a tight pencil skirt and chiffon blouse, indicating that she is there for work, not leisure. She smiles, greeting them with a friendly wave.

   Thranduil is next to her, still in his wheelchair and wearing a long-sleeved skivvy and jeans, which amuses Bard, for it is still strange to see him in anything but a suit. He pulls the sleeves down around his wrists, simpering at Bard almost shyly as he types something into a laptop in front of him with one hand, the other resting limply on his leg. There is a pen tucked behind his ear and his long hair is draped away across a shoulder like a curtain of starlight. He runs his fingers through it, pushing it away from his face handsomely. Bard has never quite considered it beyond their first meeting, but Thranduil is very beautiful. His cheekbones are high and his chin is small and when he smiles it is like the dawn in summer.

   Tauriel and Bard speak briefly before she takes her leave. She collects the children as she goes, herding them like a shepherd and telling them of Archimedes the goat, which excites them all very much. She shuts the door behind her and Bard and Thranduil are enclosed in silence, neither one able to speak first.

   But Bard eventually does.

   “This looks fun,” he comments, indicating the papers and books with a hand gesture.

   “Mmm,” hums Thranduil derisively, raising an eyebrow at it all. “I was required to have my work brought home to me; apparently being unable to walk does not excuse me from commissions.”

   Bard approaches hesitantly. He is vigilant of his actions around Thranduil for he is suddenly very aware of the man’s fragility, though Bard would never disclose this. He cannot help thinking this way, but he simply couldn’t bear it if any more harm came to Thranduil, especially by his hand. The incident at the theatre had been enough traumatic experience for a lifetime. The half-second he considered Thranduil to be dead had left Bard shaken.

   “Would you like some help?” he supplies, though he does not rightly think he could be of any.

   Thranduil’s expression is gracious at this, but he shakes his head. “No, I’ve had enough for today,” he says. Then, he looks up at Bard, and it feels as though everything falls back into place and that there has been no quarrel.

   Bard bends down slowly and kisses Thranduil’s very lightly on the corner of his mouth, cherishing the sweetness and the softness of his skin. He moves to draw back, but Thranduil catches his lips and imparts a deeper kiss and it is like a thousand symphonies in his chest.

   “I’ve missed you,” Thranduil murmurs, sending tremors down Bard’s spine.

   It is good to be missed and he returns the sentiment with another kiss.

   He thinks it strange to be in Thranduil’s home and in Thranduil’s life where he had once held no place in it. But it is a strangeness Bard can happily grow accustomed to; and not its riches or its luxuries, but for its security and acquaintance. Quite simply, if Thranduil is there, Bard can call it home.

   And home is what he calls the quaint manor for another two weeks. Gradually, more and more of his possessions and Sigrid and Bain and Tilda’s are moved into rooms and bathrooms and routines are established. Bard takes some time to organize Thranduil’s kitchen, stocking it with actual food and putting said food where it belongs (he had found milk turning to cheese in the pantry on the second day). Things are simple and easy and Bard finds much gladness in living with Thranduil, though the state of his own house plagues him, the dust only thickening like his responsibilities every time he returns to collect more things like clothes or shoes or schoolwork. But waking up every day in Thranduil's bed relieves his mind of such troubles.

   The mornings are hasty and blurry and Bard comes to understand why Thranduil provides Legolas with the breakfasts he does, though Bard refuses to endorse its tradition. Both of them sleep late and heavily and it takes Bard a good thirty minutes to get just one out of bed while his own children are relaxed and awake and ready for school every morning, indulging in being driven instead of taking the bus.

   “You make so much noise in the morning,” Thranduil relays one day as Bard crawls out of the bed at 6am, yawning impressively and stretching. He is still only half-conscious, really, and is surprised to hear Thranduil awake. “Come back to bed,” he whispers.

   Bard finds him in the dawn and among the many pillows, mumbling into the sheets inaudibly and groping for Bard needily and it is admittedly endearing, to be so sincerely wanted. Thranduil’s hair is like fine silk and his skin like polished ivory and Bard could almost succumb to it if he was not so afraid to be late for work. He is too often late and he risks his job should the headmaster catch him again. Thranduil whines when Bard does not submit to his hands, but dozes again swiftly. Bard showers and dresses and kisses Thranduil’s forehead before going downstairs for coffee. He brings some for Thranduil too – one sugar with cream – and he sits up in bed and reads his emails with a hazy look in his eyes. There would be time after school for affections and smiles.

   While Bard is at school, Thranduil spends the long days at home, sometimes with Tauriel and sometimes not. Bard is enthralled by how much work the publisher actually does, spending hours over commissions and emails and talking on the phone with authors and editors and other companies. But, as soon as Bard returns from school with Legolas, Thranduil abandons his work, letting calls go to voicemail and palming tasks off to Tauriel, only just to share in Bard’s kisses and listen about his day and of gossip among the teachers, which Thranduil likes. They come to know each other well in this way, comprehending far more about one another than just the touches of their fingers. And their fondness is still awkward and exhilarating in the way that new things are and Bard always looks forward to coming home. He hopes only that the feeling is mutual, and every day that passes ensures him that it is.

   And as the weeks wear on, Thranduil slowly regains the use of his limbs, discarding the wheelchair on occasion and favouring his cane once more, but only for short amounts of time as he is unable to stand or walk for longer than an hour, though it is enough. And as soon as the movement begins to return, the night time is suddenly better and warmer and the mornings decidedly difficult for Bard when it comes to getting out of bed, though even more so for Thranduil who requires longer recovery time. Bard lets him sleep undisturbed at these times, save for patterns of kisses on nose and lips and neck as he readies himself for the day.

   But no matter his penchant for feeling at home where Thranduil is, none relish Thranduil’s house more so than Bard’s children, who take immense pleasure from its space and extravagance. Sigrid explores the gardens, waiting for spring flowers to bud through the snow, and stays up late by the fire with Thranduil, discussing films and literature and art, merciful for someone who understands her interests and shares them with equal enthusiasm.

   Bain spends much of the weekends at a friend’s house, but does not seem to mind it at the manor during the week, despite his original reluctance. He takes well to Legolas, treating him almost like a little brother, though his attitude towards Thranduil is yet to be decided, his behaviour indifferent and inconsistent.

   As for Tilda, her every waking moment is devoted to Thranduil’s library, reading so many books it is a wonder she has the memory capacity for them. It is as though she would read them all before they leave, and Bard begins to believe that she might just achieve this. However, when she is coaxed away from the dusty pages and black print of the books, she is sweet and charming and dares even to show innocent affections to Thranduil, braiding his long hair and choosing his ties.

   When Thranduil is busy, which is sometimes quite often, Bard takes some time to continue tutoring Legolas, helping him with homework and introducing him to books and poems and films. The boy learns to like Shakespeare (despite how challenging he finds it) and Hayao Miyazaki and the twisted tales of the Brothers Grimm.

   “What did you read today?” Thranduil asks his son after a long lesson on Saturday, which was taken in the sun room with lunch and hot tea as the clouds break in the sky and the dazzling afternoon is warm through the windows. Spring is approaching.

   “ _Romeo and Juliet!_ ” Legolas exclaims delightedly. He grabs his father’s cane and swings on it for a moment, thrilled by his own thoughts, as children are. “Bard says it’s a love story, but I don’t think so.”

   “You don’t think so?” mimics Thranduil, resting a hand on Legolas’ curls. “Why not?”

   “Because..." He pauses, thinking hard. "... because Romeo forgets about Rosaline too fast when he meets Juliet and that... that's not love.”

   “Who’s to say?” Thranduil presses, encouraging debate.

   “Well, it took _you_ years and years, Ada. _Years and years_ before you fell in love with Mister Bard,”

   Bard feels colour rise to his cheeks at this and he hides his laughing face behind _Romeo and Juliet_ as Thranduil does the same with his hand. Legolas lets go of the cane, unbeknownst of the awkwardness he has created, and sprints outside to antagonize Archimedes, who has found a small patch of grass growing among the snow and is grazing it genially.

   Thranduil sits down next to Bard on the chaise lounge, still grinning. But not for long, as the topic of love is acknowledged with silence and failed to be discussed.

   Is it too soon to say anything? Or too late? Bard doesn’t know, and even if he did, he cannot guarantee a love for Thranduil, for how surely is it defined? By the tightness in his chest or by the warmth in his toes? Or by how much time is measured in happy company? Love is dangerous and frightening and only seldom kind and something Bard never thought he would have to face in the form of another. Not again, or so suddenly. He has always been very sure of his feelings, but Thranduil has him quite disarmed in this instance.

   Perhaps it is already love, this thing they have so quiet and soft, or perhaps he just needs more time to fall, because falling is easy, but love is not.

   Thranduil rests his head upon Bard’s shoulder, breaking the tension as they watch Legolas play outside with Archimedes. Then, he takes the book from Bard’s hands and flicks through it. It is an old copy, falling apart and yellow in its pages.

   “I always wondered why Romeo and Juliet were such immediate dynamics for romance,” he ponders, opening the book at random, but not reading it.

   “They died for their love; not a lot of couples can claim that kind of devotion, especially after only three days,” says Bard. “But, I like Benvolio and Mercutio better.”

   “Benvolio and Mercutio?” Thranduil is deeply confused.

   Bard smirks and opens the play near the beginning, where Benvolio and Mercutio call after Romeo when he goes to woo Juliet at her balcony. “They are best friends, see? But their exchanges indicate more than that; they’re too fluid and easy around each other to suggest simple friendship, and it is too honest to make them as brothers. And imagine a love like theirs; poetry, candlelight… getting stoned every other weekend.” Thranduil chuckles at this and Bard skips ahead to the fight scene. “And here, Mercutio is slain, and it is Benvolio to take the body away by Mercutio’s request; a lover’s last embrace.”

   “You’ve read too much into this,” Thranduil says critically, though he is smiling. “What if it is just platonic love?”

   “ _O Romeo, Romeo, brave Mercutio is dead! That gallant spirit hath aspired the clouds, which too untimely here did scorn the earth_ ,” Bard recites without even glancing at the page. “Maybe it is platonic, but that does not make it less beautiful. Look here, when Romeo is at the balcony, they tease him for such fleeting fancy to Juliet. Benvolio and Mercutio don’t understand that kind of love, because their love is strong like companionship when Romeo’s is fickle and passionate. And then they leave together, as they always enter together, neither one without the other.”

   Thranduil lifts his head to look at Bard, mischief there in his blue eyes. “Okay, you have me convinced. Who do I play?”

   Bard allows himself a crooked smile and he relaxes his arm around Thranduil.

   “You’re Benvolio,” he says. “With a taste for wine and good talk. And I am Mercutio –”

   “Sarcastic,” Thranduil interrupts impishly. “And desperate for an excitement that Benvolio cannot provide, hence his hasty death by Tybalt’s hand.”

   Bard gives Thranduil a meaningful look, understanding the reference as the woe Thranduil intends.

   “I don’t think he would be so bored by Benvolio; he keeps wild Mercutio grounded,” Bard says.

   “Do I keep you grounded?” Thranduil’s lips play at Bard’s.

   He replies by sealing the kiss, and it is pure and worthy and temperate. It has admittedly been a tiring effort for Bard, looking after Thranduil and cooking and trying not to be late for work, but every kiss they share gratifies it.

   However, compensating this gratification is a very startling reality, for arguments between Bard and Thranduil turn out to be loud and often and about nearly everything; breakfast and films and poetry and shopping and how the laundry ought to be hung and, more than anything else, Bard’s jumpers, which Thranduil appears to hate with a vengeance.

   “No! No, you are not wearing that,”

   They are going out to dinner on Friday night. Thranduil is keen to leave the house with pleasant company after so many weeks sitting at home. He is not yet fully recovered – his left arm remains cramped against his side, though it functions okay, and his knee gives out if he stands for any length of time – but he has been out of public for too long and so Bard is obliging the man with dinner.

   But apparently not in the sweater he is wearing.

   “What’s wrong with it?”

   “I will not be going to dinner with you dressed like that. I have a reputation to uphold!”

   Bard forgets Thranduil is something of a celebrity. It is an easy thing to forget, after all, when he is this irritating. Bard submits, however, and puts on a suit, as Thranduil has done.

   They are about to leave for the restaurant when tragedy appears in the sound of Tilda shrieking. Bard runs to the lounge room where the children are, skidding to a halt at the sight of blood in Legolas’ hands and mouth and Tilda pale and staring in horror. Thranduil limps to Bard’s side in seconds.

   “I lost a tooth!” Legolas exclaims delightedly, holding up a small white something. A drop of blood oozes from his mouth and onto the floor.

   “Oh, my god,” Bard mutters, putting a hand to his pounding heart and sharing a mortified exchange with Thranduil. These kids would be the death of him.

   Sigrid runs to the kitchen to fetch a towel while Tilda inches away from Legolas, her hand over her mouth as though a tooth falling out is contagious. It seems she is less tough than she makes herself out to be. Though Bard does not blame her; children and blood is something he too does not appreciate, even if it is a common occurrence.

   Thranduil takes the towel from Sigrid and sits down and cleans Legolas up, the boy grinning and examining his tooth with interest.

   “We’ll put it under your pillow tonight and the tooth faerie will leave some money in the morning,” his father says, kissing his cheek lovingly.

   “How will I know when the faerie comes?” Legolas asks, awed.

   Thranduil appears to be stumped, but Sigrid takes over smartly, saving him.

   “Look out for circles of mushrooms,” she says. “Or, if you hear the tinkling of little bells and chimes, then that is a faerie. And, sometimes, they fly into your hair and leave little knots for you to brush out.” She ruffles Legolas’ hair at this and grins at his anticipation.  

   Legolas then turns to Thranduil, eyes wide and scrutinizing, scouring his hair. And then, yes, there, he finds a tiny knot in the silver tresses and he takes it in his little fingers, gasping, and his eyes are so wide they might pop from their sockets.

   “They’re already here! Ada, look! You never get knots in your hair,” he squeals.

   Thranduil laughs. “Well, keep an eye out for them, okay? Bard and I must be going.”

   “Where?” Sigrid asks.

   “To dinner, but we won’t be too long,” he replies, standing and joining Bard.

   Their hands brush and Bard is eager to leave, to spend time with Thranduil away from the noises of children and teenagers and appreciate a small amenity outside of the manor, for Bard too has not left the house in weeks aside from school and errands and he looks forward to something different.

   And they enjoy dinner, talking and smiling and being together. Bard is intimated by Thranduil’s fame, but he adapts accordingly. He learns to take himself out of the equation, not speaking unless spoken to, should he draw attention to himself. And they have a fine time of it, and when they return home, it is to comforts of another kind; of fire and family and talk of faeries.

   Legolas is sent to bed by ten, and when it is sure he is asleep, Bard and Thranduil take the tooth from beneath his pillow and replace it with a ten pound note. Bard doesn’t question the amount; he has come to accept this way of the rich as their concept of money is so unlike his own.

   When they retire to bed, it is to touches and tender embraces and Bard hopes that it will always be this; him and Thranduil and the steadiness and consistency of home, no matter where they are. Because home is something you take with you when you leave and bring back when you return and when Bard is with Thranduil, he finally understands what that something is.


	12. A Queer Affair

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Trigger Warnings: q slur + discussion, ableism and bi-erasure (for plot purposes, of course).**

Bard finds that he can never quite appreciate morning’s enough when the bed is shared. No amount of consistency ever has him prepared for Thranduil, who is like a star trying to outshine the coming dawn. He rolls over and presses his lips to Thranduil’s neck and jaw and shoulders, tracing patterns against his back. His skin is so soft Bard could almost mistake it for the satin bed covers.

   Thranduil mumbles and stirs at Bard’s touch, blinking in the foggy light of the morning, his breathing becoming irregular and slower. He squints up at Bard, who shifts himself half on top of Thranduil and kisses all the freckles on his shoulders and back.

   “Good morning,”

   Bard will miss this; lips on Thranduil’s skin, its scent of pine needles and wine, and husky tones of sleep exchanging poems and stories and laughter before the day must begin.

   “I have to go home,” he explains.

   Thranduil twists beneath him so they are face-to-face.

   “But you _are_ home,” he points out audaciously, pushing the hair from his face with a lazy palm. It is always tousled in the mornings, but handsomely so. It smells of soapy hair treatment and sleep.

   “I mean my _house_ home, where the bills are piling up and the dust is getting a life of its own.”

   Thranduil pouts, his fingers skimming across Bard’s chest pensively. Bard does not want to leave, but knows he must. He cannot abandoned his house and ignore his responsibilities in favour of Thranduil and his manor and his company. He wants to, but that’s not the way the world works. Thranduil is better, now, and can manage well-enough on his own. Bard had promised to stay until he recovered, and now it is time to leave.

   “It’s been three weeks,” he says judiciously. “I cannot impose any longer; this is nonsense.”

   Thranduil blows a puff of air. “I suppose you are right,” he submits with reluctance. “Though, I’m honestly astounded you lasted this long.”

   Bard allows himself a grin. “Why? Did you think you could irritate me into leaving? You’re a headache, to be sure, but I could never tire of you,” he whispers, leaning down to covet Thranduil’s neck in kisses. “You are like a new adventure every day.”

   They find one last adventure beneath the sheets and afterwards the rest of the morning is spent packing belongings and hauling them into Bard’s truck. And it seems he and his family did not think through their stay very carefully because the amount of stuff they are now required to take back to their real home is fast becoming impossible.

   It eventually fits, however, if haphazardly and with more trouble than its worth, for it will be a nightmare to unpack again. Bard gets his kids into the car, grumbling and sad, but none so much as Bain, who was forced to return from his friend’s house where he had been staying for the weekend. Thranduil sees them off from the driveway, which is wet dirt and gravel now, the months of winter and snow finally dissipating, making way for spring and sun and flowers.

   “You must invite me to your home, now,” he remarks, leaning through the window and smiling coyly.

   Bard makes a face, not overly keen at the idea of showing Thranduil is house anytime soon, for it is small and pitiful in comparison to the manor, and will probably need more cleaning than he is willing to do.

   “Thank you again,” he says, starting the car.

   “No; thank you,” Thranduil objects. He leaves a quaint kiss on Bard’s cheek; a bit of home to take with him, and to bring back. “I have never been so well looked-after.”

   He says goodbye to Bard’s children, promising to invite them over again, and Bard drives away, unwillingly, and consciously leaving something behind, for Thranduil had developed a habit for wearing a certain one of Bard’s sweaters, and it feels only right to let him keep it.

   Coming to Spofforth is like moving in again. Bard and his children use most of their Saturday unpacking things back into closets and cupboard and shelves. Not Bain, however, who is eager to head back to his friend’s house for the remainder of the weekend and leaves his trunk, still packed, in his room, which Bard is not pleased about. He stops his son at the door.

   “You’re spending an awful lot of time with this friend of yours,” he states, crossing his arms in the way that parents do. “What is his name; Faramir? Have I met him?”

   Bain shakes his head, rubbing the back of his neck uncomfortably and shuffling in his Doc Martens; it is as if he wants to say something, but doesn’t have the courage to.

   “He’s just a mate from school,” he says.

   “Well, you can’t spend all of your weekends there; I don’t want you falling behind on your schoolwork,” Bard hassles.

   “Da, you only say that because you’re a teacher,”

   “I say it because I’m your father,”

   Bain sneers and makes for the door again, hitching a backpack onto his shoulder. “I’ll be home tomorrow night,” he says, and he leaves before Bard can get another word in.

   He turns around then and he spots Sigrid behind him, clutching her laptop and watching them, chewing her lip nervously.

   “Have I done something wrong?” Bard inquires, pointing his thumb over his shoulder.

   Sigrid only shrugs awkwardly and disappears, her eyes not meeting Bard’s, which makes him feel like he is missing a very important factor to the equation that is his son. But it does not matter now; he will find out in time. It does not do to push things forward before they are ready. He only hopes that this thing is not dangerous or unhealthy.

  Bard does the grocery shopping that afternoon, their pantry and refrigerator in desperate need of replenishing. Sigrid pushes the trolley and Tilda chooses the fruit and vegetables. They nearly buy fish for dinner, but quickly decide against it, for after so many weeks at Thranduil’s home eating only vegetarian meals, their appetite for meat is all but lost. It is an odd adjustment which occurred quite without consciousness. Bard honestly had not even realized Thranduil was vegetarian until about a week into their stay when at last he had commented on the lack of protein in their meals. Sigrid and Tilda found it intriguing and heart-warming while Bain had little to say on the matter, as was his custom. Bard simply accepted it for what it was and found he had no qualm in not eating meat.

   He throws a bottle of iron tablets into the trolley and proceeds to the checkout.

   When they arrive home, Bard receives a text message.

-          _You left your jumper here._

-          _You left many of your possessions, actually._

-          **You can hardly blame me. Three weeks of belongings is a lot to account for. And I left that jumper on purpose. I know you like it.**

-          _What? No, it’s hideous._

-          **You wore more often than I did!**

-          _I would never wear brown and orange in same respect._

-          **But you did.**

-          _I’ll donate it to charity if you don’t want it._

-          _Actually, they wouldn’t even accept it. I’ll have it destroyed._

-          **You’re wearing it right now, aren’t you?**

-          _Shut up._

-          **I’ll come by tomorrow and pick up what’s left… If that suits you?**

-          _I have an appointment tomorrow. Does Monday suit instead; after school? We can have coffee._

-          **Sure. What kind of appointment?**

Thranduil does not reply to the last message and Bard does his best not to dwell on it. Perhaps it is none of his business, despite how much their relationship has progressed in the past month. Or perhaps he is simply destined to find out later. He locks his phone and starts dinner.

   There is little to tell of the rest of Bard’s weekend. Sunday is spent purging the house of dust and dirt and marking papers and tests. Sigrid and Tilda cram homework in the lounge room and complain of how much unpacking there is still to do. Bard also receives various text messages from Thranduil, all of them containing pictures of cats that look like Bard, if Bard was a cat.

   Bain returns some time before dinner. He greets his father in the kitchen with a stiff nod and promptly retreats to his bedroom. Bard pretends not to notice when Sigrid gets up from the sofa and follows him.

   He does not approve of eavesdropping, but there is an open archway leading from the kitchen into the hallway where the bedrooms are and Bard overhears Sigrid and Bain speaking in hushed tones. He stops chopping celery and strains his ears to listen, hating himself, but unable to fight his curiosity, for Bain and Sigrid do not ever seek to talk in private.  

   “You have to tell him,” says Sigrid gently. “You can’t keep it a secret forever.”

   “I don’t even know what I’m doing,” Bain mutters. There is the thud of his bag hitting the floor. “What if I’m just kidding myself?”

   “It’s still worth it to say something; maybe Da can help,”

   “I’m still scared,” he whispers.

   “Just tell him; get it over with. If you don’t do it now, it will only get worse,”

   This is followed by silence. Bard’s heart is racing, eager and terrified to know what his son has to tell him.

   He sets the knife down, afraid to cut himself with his trembling hands.

   _Please don’t let it be drugs._

   “Do you want me to come with you?” Sigrid encourages, her tone softer now.

   Bain does not respond for a moment, obviously thinking.

   “Yeah,” he finally says.

   Bard shakes himself and continues to chop the vegetable, but not really paying attention to what he is doing. He loves his children, as every father should, and he would gladly sacrifice the world for them if only they asked. But the stress they were capable of putting on him was almost unbearable.

   _I’m getting too old for this._

   They do not enter the kitchen for a few more minutes and Bard prepares himself by finishing dinner. He cuts the remainder of the vegetables and drops them into a simmering soup, trying to keep his head clear. Whatever it is, he must not lose his temper.

   “Da?”

   Bard whirls around, slamming the lid down on the pot in shock. Bain and Sigrid are at the archway, Sigrid standing tall and Bain looking like he might fall apart any second.

   “What’s up?” Bard manages, gradually becoming aware of the lid burning his hand. He lets go very carefully and deliberately, his head a blur of thoughts and worry.

   Sigrid takes a step back and nudges Bain’s elbow. He scowls at her persistence and takes a deep breath.

   “I know you’ve been… wondering why I’ve been at Faramir’s every weekend…” Bain begins, running his fingers through his hair anxiously. Bard jumps to a hundred conclusions, none of them correct, for seldom is the right answer anyone’s first guess, no matter how obvious it is when revealed. “I’m sort of… seeing him.”

   Bard exhales, not realizing he had been holding his breath. For so much tension and lip-biting and anticipation, all his son has to confess is a relationship crisis with another boy. Bard wants to slap himself; how had he not seen it?

   Probably because Thranduil had been in the way. Damn his infatuation with that man! Falling in love wasn’t worth this much aggravation.

   Yes it was.

   After squashing the desire to yell at Bain with misdirected frustration, Bard sits him down and asks questions and gives pretty pathetic answers – in his opinion – though they seem to ease Bain’s troubles whether decent in quality or not. Sigrid stays and listens and gives helpful input. Bain’s primary issue is accepting the relationship publicly, which Bard has little experience with since his own is very private indeed, though perhaps to a different extent, as Bain’s audience is his fellow classmates and Bard’s is the entire world.

   They eat dinner and continue the discussion, at which point Tilda declares she does not want another brother, and Bard explains that it doesn’t work like that.

   “You just have to give it time,” he tells his son. “Work it out between the two of you first, then think about coming out. It will never be easy, and you might as well accept that while you’re ahead. And if it goes badly, you can just move schools and start over.”

   “So, are you a queer now, Bain?” Tilda quips innocently.

   “Tilda, don’t use that word!” Sigrid snaps harshly. “Where did you even learn that?”

   Tilda shrugs. “I read it in a book.”

   “Well, it’s not a nice word and you shouldn’t say it,” Sigrid scolds.

    “I like it,” Bain comments. “It’s a good word, if you want it to be. It’s… broad. It’s the kind of word to bring people together.”

   Bard fights back a smile, agreeing with his son. It is a good word.

   “But it’s a slur!” Sigrid contends.

   “It’s a _reclaimed_ slur,” Bard amends. “But you are technically right. Some people like it and some don’t, so best let it be.”

   The night ends with cartoons on television and more homework. Sigrid takes a stack of tests from her father and helps him correct them on the dining table. Bard is tired and grateful for her help. It has been a long weekend and a long three weeks and it is good to be in a place that is familiar to him. Thranduil’s house had been a home, but Bard did not know its nooks and crannies the way he did his own.

   Getting into bed is as difficult as it had been the night before, however, for Bard had never grown accustomed to sleeping alone and had never taken any pleasure in it, despite nine years of his life as a single father. But after learning to cherish all the ways of Thranduil sleeping beside him – his feet against Bard’s and his tender fingers never far away – an empty bed is suddenly even more challenging to sleep in, and it doesn’t feel like home at all.

   -

   On Monday, Legolas is absent from school. Bard messages Thranduil to ask why, but receives no reply. At lunch time he calls, but it goes immediately to voicemail. He prays nothing is wrong and tries not to dwell on it as the day progresses, though he snaps the chalk multiple times and forgets the dates for the deaths of all but two of the Pharaohs he is required to teach his class about.

   When the bell tolls for the end of the day, Bard gathers his things with relief and goes to the teacher’s lounge for coffee, though he admittedly does not want to, for many of his colleagues have been giving him peculiar looks throughout the day, whispering behind hands and not meeting his eyes, the ghosts of smiles on their faces that are not at all friendly. It makes him uneasy for it is obvious they are keeping a secret from him.

   “Headmaster wants to see you,” says Hilda when Bard enters the office building.

   He gives her a bewildered look but does not argue. He turns left instead of right and knocks on the headmaster’s door, wondering what turmoil he is in this time. The headmaster dislikes Bard with unforgivable tenacity, and he is about to discover quite how far that tenacity goes.

   “Ah, Bard, there you are. I’ve meaning to speak with you all day,”

   Bard does not sit, though is invited to. He eyes his boss carefully, his heart tightening in his chest and his hand around his bag. This is not going to be pleasant.

   “Yes?” he inquires tensely, biting his tongue to refrain from making any snide comments, though they itch the back of his throat with temptation.

   The headmaster opens a drawer in his desk and pulls out a magazine. Without saying a word, he drops it on the table with a satisfying _smack_ and pushes it to Bard for better inspection.

   It is a tabloid magazine. The front cover is cluttered with celebrity gossip, loud and colourful titles shouting at Bard among grainy photographs and weight-loss schemes. And there, in the corner, crammed beneath ‘news’ about an actor is a photo of Bard and Thranduil sitting at a table together, taken through the window of the restaurant where they had eaten dinner just over a week ago. The headline reads;

 

_IN LOVE AGAIN AT LAST? THRANDUIL OROPHERION SPEAKS OUT IN AN EXCLUSIVE INTERVIEW ABOUT HIS NEW GAY RELATIONSHIP._

 

   Bard’s mouth goes dry and his takes the magazine with shaking hands. He finds the interview at the halfway mark, two glossy pages smeared with photographs of his face and Thranduil’s; walking in London, at the theatre for the book-signing, and at dinner in York. He reads, barely able to comprehend the words.

   _The burden of upholding a company as admired and prestigious as Greenleaf Books does not leave much room for romance, but it seems Thranduil Oropherion, 32, can have it all._

_Bard Bowman, a Second Grade teacher at Ashville College in Harrogate, where Thranduil’s son attends school, has been spotted enjoying the limelight with the infamous publisher, including romantic dinners, public outings with family, and even attending renowned author Galadriel Alatáriel’s exclusive book-signing in London last month. This scruffy-looking father of three has captured the heart of UK’s most prized aristocrat, much to the disappointment of the female population._

_In an exclusive chat with Arkenstone Magazine, the man unofficially crowned as UK’s hottest bachelor opens up about the romance behind the queer affair._

**It’s been wonderful following your success in the publishing business. How is it that you have the time for romance?**

_I’m really just the face of the company [Greenleaf Books]. I have more time on my hands than I know what to do with._

**This guy must be very special to have sparked your interest; will we be seeing more of him?**

_Yeah, Bard’s great! I never considered having a gay relationship, but he’s certainly opened my eyes to a whole new experience. I’m really enjoying myself, so I’ll probably bring him along to more parties and socials in the future._

**How did you two meet?**

_At Ashville, during those dreadful parent-teacher interviews. He’s Legolas’ teacher._

**And how does your son feel about the affair?**

_He’s taking it well. He loves the idea of having two dads!_

**The death of your wife seven years ago must really impact the relationship. How does Bard feel dating a heterosexual widower?**

_It hardly impacts us at all! We’re just having fun with it, really. He takes me on cute dates and I like to spoil him. It’s all nice and civil. After so many years of being single, it’s nice to finally relax in another person’s comfort._

**Your famous cane is still your constant companion; does your disability affect any romance in the bedroom?**

_This old thing? No! My disability is all but gone. My cane is just a fashion statement, really. It’s a family heirloom._

**Well, it’s great to see you back on your feet again. What happened at the Finborough?**

_Oh, that; I just bumped my head – clumsy! I figured I deserved a few weeks off work, so I used it as an excuse. And Bard took very good care of me._

**Your public image with Bard seems almost perfect; is it the same behind closed doors?**

_Absolutely! What Bard and I have is unique and thrilling and I’m very excited to see where it leads us. Maybe not to anything of a permanent nature, if you get my meaning, but hopefully to something good and life-changing._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please don't yell at me ilu guys and I can't resist a cliff hanger.


	13. Tauriel

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Trigger Warning for q slur (again)**  
>  Some of you figured out what happened while some of appeared to have no clue sooo this chapter reveals all! A little bit of back-story and some more character cameos and basically things will be more exciting in the next chapter when the ball starts rolling.  
> Thank you for the comments and kudos! Each one makes my day just a little brighter :)

Bard leaves the office in a daze, his mind reeling and his heart seizing and the words of the headmaster chasing a hundred questions and a thousand potential answers.

_“I suggest you consider what is most valuable to you, Bowman. Pull another stunt like this and I’ll see to it that your teaching days are over! I won’t have the reputation of this school tarnished by the queer and lecherous liaisons of you and some jumped-up book publisher. Get out!”_

   So this had been Thranduil's 'appointment' yesterday.

   But it must be false. The interview cannot be real; it does not even sound like Thranduil answering those vile questions. However, Bard must find out for certain. Ignorant he is of how celebrities are, never knowing what their true natures might be beyond cameras and books and characters. And if they are liars and attention-seeking leeches, then he has been fooled by the best; the one most likely and most able to break his heart.

   All his life Bard has considered himself a man of honesty; it does not do to lie when the truth is so much more effective, even in the harshest of ways. He has always told the truth, even if lying is sometimes simpler, and right now he can honestly say that he should have fucking known. He should have known this was all too good to be true.

   He gets into his truck and calls Thranduil again, but there is still no response. Seething, his vision blurred and unfocused with anger, he finds Tauriel’s number in his mobile and hits the call button. It rings for a long time, but it is eventually answered.

   “Bard –”

   “Where is he?” He doesn’t recognize his own voice. It is hoarse and distant, like he is hearing himself through padded walls.

   “At the office. Listen, Bard, the interview –”

   “No, save it, Tauriel. I want to hear it from him,”

   He hangs up and takes a deep breath, attempting to relax. He knows there is no sense in jumping to conclusions, but still it does not stop him from being angry.

   He opens the magazine in his hands, returning to the interview. He reads it again and again, the fury in his chest growing and growing. He does not know what riles him more; the interview itself, or the picture of his children taken in London. It is one thing to be exposed to the media so unceremoniously and grossly, but it is quite another to have one’s children thrown into the thick of it as well.

   The word ‘queer’ glares up at him indignantly, like a brand or logo he must now be so associated with. It had been a good word, for a day, but now Bard doesn’t like it very much at all.

   He starts the car and the drive to York is achingly long. He tries not to think or let his mind wander, though this only makes him think of all the things he will say to Thranduil depending on what will be revealed. But, more than anything, Bard thinks of how sad this all turned out to be. He believed at last that he had been given a chance to have something good again; something whole and practical and lovely. Yet after so much wishful thinking and high-school hand-holding, this good thing is being squashed, like a bug under a shoe because it was simply in the wrong place at the wrong time.

   He arrives at the office building of Greenleaf Books. It is a humble establishment of three stories, red and brown brick and white windows, crammed between a café and a bookstore where Thranduil’s books are sold. Everything in York has the atmosphere of Deja Vu if one does not make regular visits, which Bard does not. It is some sort of miracle he was able to find Thranduil’s place of work without getting lost as he has never been here before. But there is a first for everything, even if that first has the potential to be a last.

   He enters the building, which is clean and modern and with little personality, contrasting the brusque architecture.  He asks for Thranduil and the receptionist – who has small shoulders and a stammer – does not dissuade him. Bard is clearly no stranger here now, despite having never visited. She directs him to the second floor and as he gets into the elevator, he see hers pressing a phone to her ear, eyes wide and her hands shaking.

   Reaching the second floor, Bard expects chaos; papers on the floor and phones ringing with annoying vigilance and people shouting at each other or into receivers. But years of assumptions about the book-publishing business have him astounded at the silence and the stillness. Everything is very tidy and scrubbed within an inch of its life, but it is here where the personality of the company seems to flourish. There are bookshelves here and there, sectioning off areas where a wall might instead. There is a fish tank near a seating area for visitors and a kitchen through a door on the right. And all on the carpeted floor are cardboard boxes full of papers; manuscripts and novels and drafts.

   For a moment, Bard doubts there is actually anyone here and goes to leave, but he hears a door open at the back of the room where there is a large table overwhelmed with files and laptops and pens and books, adorned with mismatching chairs and siding three squashy sofas that have been haphazardly stuffed into a corner with a large wall of books. The door that opens leads into an office; Thranduil’s office, apparently, as it is he who emerges from it, his expression chagrined.

   Bard’s heart feels as though it is trying to constrict itself into nothing. It seems no matter what his head tells him, his heart says different, and right now it is telling him to hold onto Thranduil and never let him go because there is no way the interview is real. But Bard has spent nine long years fighting what his heart has ever said or wanted, and old habits die hard.

   “Bard –”

   “Is it true?”

   Thranduil slows his approach, leaning heavily on his cane, his brow furrowed with caution and confusion.

   “The interview?”

   Bard nods stiffly, keeping tabs on his temper, which is eager to flare. What else could he be talking about?

   “Of course not! How can you think so? It doesn’t even sound like me!” Thranduil seems offended, but Bard recognises the same ire that simmers in him.

   They will both lose a great deal to this fabricated article, and Bard admits he is not keen on hanging around to find out exactly how much.

   “I apologise for getting you mixed up in this,” Thranduil continues. He takes Bard’s hand and his fingers are soft and gentle and Bard never wants him to let go. “I’ve been dealing with it all day, but with little success.”

   “Is that why your phone is off?” Bard inquires.

   “Too many calls were coming through, and my lawyer and I were more preoccupied with getting Oakenshield on the phone.” Thranduil bites his lip, glancing down at their hands intertwined. He is tired. “I am so sorry,” he says again.

   Bard shakes his head, feeling overcome with relief, but also anxiety, for the interview may not be real but the repercussions most certainly are. He is unsure of what to do. It is all very well for this to be dealt with politically and civilly and have it swept under the rug like celebrity drama is, but Bard never considered a sample of fame would leave such a bad taste in his mouth. His family has been compromised, as has his job and integrity. He is a fighter, but his family comes first. Always.

   He lets go of Thranduil’s hand.

   “I came only to find out if the interview was fake,” he clarifies, the words caught in his throat. He tries to ignore the way his heart thuds with reluctance. “But I guess, either way, it doesn’t make any difference…”

   Thranduil almost simpers at this, as if he saw it coming.

   “Are you breaking up with me?” he murmurs, not meeting Bard’s eyes.

   “No!” Bard’s stomach twists at the thought. He takes Thranduil’s chin between his thumb and forefinger, lifting his head gently. “I’m just… benching myself while you play the game. I can’t do this, Thranduil. I’m just a teacher; my aspirations for a relationship don’t account for fabricated interviews and fancy dinner parties. I’m in over my head and I’m scared for my job and for my family. I need time to think about this. I need to consider what my place is in your life, or if it has a place in it at all.”

   Thranduil simply looks at Bard, with eyes that see even when there is nothing left to look at. He has always been so observant of Bard; never failing to catch when he is sad or lying. And this way of knowing him does not falter here, either, for though Thranduil sees so much and so well, he really is afraid of so many things. He had been expecting this to happen. He had been expecting Bard to leave.

   “I do not blame you,” he assures, fiddling with his cane. After all they disagree upon, Thranduil does not argue this. “I only wish I could express how sorry I am.”

   Bard plays at a smile. His hands feel empty, so he stuffs them into his pockets.

   “It’s okay,” he says, though they both know it isn’t. “Let me know when it’s all smoothed over.”

   Thranduil nods dejectedly and Bard turns to leave, unable to bring himself to depart on any sort of affection should his heart succeed in winning over his head. But it seems this feeling is not mutual. Thranduil suddenly grabs his arm and pulls him back with surprising strength, enveloping him in one last kiss, hard and desperate and devastating. It is something for Bard to take with him, but with no obligation to bring it back. 

   -

Thranduil watches Bard’s retreating back, scared to forget it should this be the last time he sees it. He has no right to want Bard; no right to covet what he cannot have but, God, he wants to. Thranduil wants to know what it is like to love and be loved and have love again. Again and again, he wants to feel that dull and burning ache in his chest and feel it build and stretch and make him whole. But Bard shuts the door as he departs and Thranduil’s want simply hovers.

   He will never condemn Bard for leaving and never forgive himself for being the reason why.

   “Thranduil?”

   Tauriel has emerged from her office behind Thranduil. He turns to face her, eager for news, good or bad, so long as it moves them forward.

   “I just got off the phone with Kili –”

   “Kili?” Thranduil does not know them.

   Tauriel smiles nervously, running her fingers through her hair. “You remember a couple of weeks ago I said I was seeing someone? It’s Kili – he’s Oakenshield’s nephew,” she confesses.

   Thranduil’s stomach drops. “You’re _affiliated_ with one of them?” he growls furiously.

   She flinches at this, but does not back down, as is her nature. “I admit I didn’t really know who he was until _after_ we starting seeing each other. We met during the book-signing – you recall Oakenshield was there? Kili and his brother also were.”

   Thranduil sighs. This is the last thing he needs. It is not that he disapproves of Tauriel having any romance in her life, but rather who she has chosen to direct said romance. He knows it is not his place to try and commandeer or control her love-life, but fraternizing with the enemy does not exactly give him any joy. Still, it has gotten them connected with _someone_.

   “What did he say?”

   “Oakenshield is out of the country right now, but Kili and Fili are happy to have a meeting with you tomorrow morning, if it’s agreeable,” Tauriel relays promptly. “They have no power to withdraw printing of this week’s issue, but they are on your side and are trying to get in touch with their uncle so you can come to terms, but there has been no luck so far. It seems he knew how much trouble this would land him in.”

   “Of course he did,” Thranduil says savagely. “He’s been waiting for years to get dirt like this on me, lurking in my shadow like a parasite.”

   “You two have had quarrel before?”

   He grimaces. “Of sorts. Years ago, I agreed to provide a detailed interview to his magazine about my life; general gossip and the like. Legolas had just been born and I had unveiled my new outline for book-binding, so there was beginning to be talk and it seemed Oakenshield wanted to be the first to publish it. His magazine was scarcely a year old and not yet as well-known as it is now, so I thought to do the generous thing and provide him with an opportunity to boost revenue, despite my reputation for turning down interviews and making public appearances. My wife, however, did not trust him.

   "Perhaps it was childish of me to be so quick to abide by her judgement, but I sold the interview to a different magazine at the last minute. Apparently he never forgave me for it.”

   “I think you did the right thing,” Tauriel says firmly. “His magazine is trash and everyone knows it. Never has it been associated with anything of moral merit. You probably avoided a very messy debacle all those years ago.”

   “Yet I have this with which to substitute it,” Thranduil argues sullenly. “For all my cautiousness and better judgement, I have lost Bard to this juvenile feud.”

   Tauriel then does something very brave; she embraces Thranduil. Shocked and somewhat mentally impervious to touch, Thranduil does not respond for a long moment. But her small frame and tight grip sway him, and he returns the embrace, for once feeling oddly large and awkward next to her tiny stature.

   “It’ll be okay,” she reassures, stepping back and grinning. “We’ll sue his arse for all he’s got and scrap that pathetic magazine and get your boyfriend back.”

   Thranduil smirks at her enthusiasm, but for only a second, for as soon as Tauriel returns to her office to collect her things, the mirth is gone and replaced with crippling doubt, for in his fingertips Thranduil can feel that he may not ever get Bard back.

-

   “Ada, why are you sad?”

   Legolas is sitting on the floor by the fire, playing with some blocks and eating pizza. Thranduil is lying on the sofa, a cushion over his face, unable to confront any aspect of his life right now. Except perhaps his son; he always has time and affection for Legolas.

   “I am not sad,” he insists, his voice muffled through the cushion. Truthfully, he is miserable, but he will not say so.

   There is silence, then some rustling, and then a small, scrambling weight on Thranduil’s stomach. He peers out from beneath the pillow to find Legolas staring up at him from his torso, blue eyes wide and sympathetic. The child squashes his face into his father’s chest and exhales fiercely, blowing hot air through Thranduil’s shirt. They laugh.

   “Why are you sad?” Legolas asks again.

   Thranduil cannot bring himself to tell his son that Bard will no longer be visiting. Not yet.

   “I am just tired,” he declares. “People at work are giving me a hard time.”

   “Oh. Do they not like your stories?”

   Thranduil smiles. “In a sense,” he says.

   “Amrod and Amras don’t like stories,” Legolas continues. “They think movies are better.”

   “And what do you think?”

   “I like books.” Legolas undoes one of Thranduil’s shirt buttons with his small fingers and then does it up again, repeating the action as he speaks. “I wish I could read. Amras doesn’t like to read but he still can and he thinks I’m stupid.”

   Thranduil’s heart stops at this. “Does he say this to you?”

   Legolas shrugs and Thranduil understands this as an affirmation and he sits up, letting Legolas slide into his lap.

   “How long has this been occurring?” he inquires, trying to be calm.

   Legolas looks up at his father with fearful eyes, as though he might be scolded or cause more grief. He says nothing, as is his way, and pulls at a thread in his jumper instead of answering the question.

   “Legolas.” Thranduil’s voice is deep and commanding; one for the office, not for home.

   “A while,” the boy finally replies, wincing gently.

   Thranduil places a caring hand upon Legolas’ head, running fingers through curls and cherishing their softness. Always it has plagued Thranduil that his son might be teased at school just as he had. He has been suspicious of it already happening – Bard mentioned it a few weeks previously – but confirmation of it from Legolas makes Thranduil feel nauseous.

   “Well, if this boy says anything that upsets you, I want you to tell Bard, okay?” he instructs kindly.

   “Okay,”

   They retire to bed soon after this, the grandfather clock in the entrance signalling the late hour. Thranduil struggles up the staircase, his leg bothering him. Stress has an unusual impact on his disability that he does not appreciate. Still recovering from his accident last month, his knee aches and he takes extra care not to trip, holding onto the bannister for support. Legolas is quick to the second floor, his legs built almost to compensate for his father’s.

   Thranduil does not wish to see Legolas to school the next day – or any day following – but he cannot ask Galion to babysit again or sacrifice Legolas’ education and so resigns to hoping no harm will come to his son. He sends Bard a message before going to sleep.

-          _Will you look out for Legolas? I am worried for him._

   He does not honestly believe he will receive a reply, but on the edge of sleep when shadows begin to look like ghosts and the sheets finally submit to warmth and comfort, his phone vibrates violently on the bedside table.

-          **Of course I will.**

   He sleeps.

-

   Thranduil is severely unimpressed when he is introduced to Kili and his elder brother, Fili. They are both unusually tall and handsome in the face. Fili is the first to greet Thranduil, his handshake stiff and chin proud and strong. Thranduil spots a tattoo beneath the collar of his shirt; one of likely very many. His hair is yellow and cropped short and neat and his voice his deep and even.

   Kili – who is far closer to Tauriel’s age of 24 than Thranduil originally predicted – is smiling and enthusiastic, his hair dark, sleeked back and curling at the ends and his jaw sporting a healthy five o’clock shadow while Fili is professionally clean-shaven. They look alike, but also strikingly different.

   They sit, Tauriel standing by Thranduil’s desk with her tablet. He tries not to notice the way she and Kili eye each other constantly.

   Thranduil’s lawyer is outside, trying tirelessly to contact Thorin Oakenshield while the meeting with Kili and Fili drags on and on, the discussion of business and legal matters becoming heated and then peaceful and then turning to a rebuke about their uncle’s behaviour. They are angry and weary of his games, neither of them ever able to gain any type of position in the magazine, but still forced to clean up the messes he makes. 

   “I am sure you are at liberty to quit the tabloid,” Thranduil supplies. He is curious of Fili and Kili’s loyalty to their uncle, which is steadfast, but full of misgivings.

   They exchange wary glances.

   “If only it were as simple as that,” Fili explains. “Neither of us have had any formal education beyond high school. We’re ill-experienced in any other field, so our only option would be to leave _Arkenstone_ for another magazine.”

   “Which Thorin would not appreciate,” Kili adds, shifting awkwardly in his seat. “We’re all the family he has.”

   “Unfortunate for you,” Thranduil says boldly, his lips playing at a smirk.

   He stands then, deciding to conclude the meeting for he is already tired and hungry. “This has been enlightening,” he concedes. “I’ll be in touch.”

   Fili nods seriously. “We’ll let you know if we get into contact with Thorin, or his lawyer. He cannot stay in Finland forever.”

   The group say their farewells and Tauriel follows the brothers from the building to say goodbye. Thranduil goes next door for coffee. He eats the froth from his latte and checks his emails and misses Bard very much.


	14. Metaphors

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Trigger Warning for minor ableism via characters, and alcohol mention.**  
>  This chapter didn't go as planned and everything that was meant to happen has been shifted over to the next chapter for cliffhanger purposes. But Haldir is back by popular demand (and because I love him) and there are some conversations.  
> Don't forget, you can contact me [here](http://queerteddy.tumblr.com/ask%22) if you have any questions, and thank you all again for being the backbone of this story :)

The remainder of the week goes by uneventfully with Thorin Oakenshield keeping himself very stubbornly in Finland, out of reach and out of sight, for not even his sister or lawyer know where he is. Thranduil tackles this by staying in nearly constant contact with Kili and Fili and Dwalin, Thorin’s lawyer, arranging court dates and meetings for when the leech of a journalist does finally show his face.

   Everything else on Thranduil’s agenda is otherwise cancelled for he finds himself unable to face the public eye, which has been honing down on him ever since the interview was published. There is always the trickle of paparazzi outside his office or following him down the street, asking questions or taking pictures. Thranduil counters this by staying at home, fearfully imagining how much pressure this is putting on Bard, who is likely being irritated by the media as well. Thranduil feels badly for him and this guilt settles poisonously in his stomach, making him nauseous and clammy, like he is on the edge of a fever.

   He has not called or messaged Bard since Monday night, respecting his wishes to be kept out of the spotlight, even in the smallest of ways. It saddens Thranduil that Bard no longer wants to be associated with him, but still does not pin blame on anyone but himself for it. He negotiates that Bard will return to him when he is ready. And if he is never ready, then that is okay too.

   Well, it isn’t, but Thranduil figures he might as well accept it while he is ahead. This thought process does not deter his excessive drinking or make his bed feel less empty, but at least he is no longer pining after something he cannot have. He knows that, perhaps, he may have this something in the future, but for now it aches to think about because he does not have it now, so he does not dwell on it at all.

   On Saturday, Thranduil receives a phone call unforgivably early in the morning. At least, it feels very early, but he cannot be sure of the actual time. His mobile phone hums irksomely from the floor, waking him with the white and yellow of the sun and clouds and with a slight hangover. He has fallen asleep on the sofa downstairs. Again.

   “Hello?” he mumbles, his voice thick against his tongue, which feels furry, as though someone has stuffed cotton wool in his mouth.

   “Rise and shine! I’m coming over,”

   “Who is this?” It’s not Bard, so Thranduil doesn’t honestly care, but figures he ought to ask anyway since he did not see the caller ID in his sleep-induced daze.

   “The light of your life; your sun and stars and moon,”

   “Fuck off, Haldir,”

   “Wow, someone partied hard last night,”

   Thranduil scoffs, eyeing an empty bottle of wine on the floor by the smouldering remains of the fire. Partied with his self-loathing, maybe, and many glasses of a very rich port that had been aged too well and gotten him drunk too quickly. He had desperately underestimated how strong it was; the intention had been to get pleasantly intoxicated, not blind drunk.

   “What time is it?” he asks.

   “Nine-thirty. I’m out with the twins. We’re in the neighbourhood.” Haldir’s voice sounds distant, as though he is driving, and there is chatter in the background that Thranduil assumes is Rúmil and Orophin; Haldir’s twin younger brothers from his mother’s second marriage.

   “This isn’t really a good time,” Thranduil rebukes, rubbing his eyes of sleep, but succeeding only in making stars blur the corners of his vision. “I have a… thing.”

   Haldir laughs. “Spare me, Thranduil; I heard about the interview and the mess Thorin Oakenshield got you in. I haven’t seen you in weeks, and some company will do you good. Besides, I’m already pulling up to your driveway.”

   Thranduil groans and jumps to his feet, though this only makes him light-headed and queasy. He hangs up and goes upstairs to get dressed, though this process is slow as his hangover hinders his movements and causes him to trip several times on the stairs and stumble over the havoc of clothes on his bedroom floor. He has not done the laundry, so he wriggles into the first pair of crumpled jeans he finds, puts on his last clean pair of socks and pulls a jumper over his head. His hair is a disaster of knots and tangles, however, and he has no option but to throw it up into a messy bun, finding a hair tie wrapped around another wine bottle – one from two nights ago.

   He washes his face and brushes his teeth and when he returns downstairs, Haldir has let himself in and gotten comfortable on the sofa, inspecting the bottle of wine while Orophin and Rúmil are outside with Legolas, playing with Archimedes and enjoying the rare sunshine that spring has brought.

   Haldir looks up at Thranduil, who almost finds it humorous the way their appearances are in opposite respects of the last time they had seen each other, for Haldir is wearing reputable clothes and his hair has been brushed and he has shaved while Thranduil’s jumper is actually on backwards and the dark circles under his eyes look more like bruises than the mere result of lethargy. But he feels too wretched and tired and miserable to laugh about such things, or too care very much for his appearance, though he can only imagine how awful he truly does look because Haldir’s face drops when he sees his friend.

   “You’re a wreck,” he comments, but not unkindly.

   Thranduil limps over and drops into the sofa, rubbing his face wearily. Haldir points to his backwards jumper and Thranduil lazily pulls his arms through it, twisting it around the right way with considerable effort since his left arm will not cooperate. Haldir helps him.

   “I actually thought you had some sort of occasion last night, but it looks to me like your date was a bottle of wine – which is forty years old! Oh, God, _smelling it_ is enough to make my insides ferment; how did you drink this?” Haldir grimaces and sets the bottle down on the coffee table.

   Thranduil can still taste the wine at the back of his throat; bittersweet and fruity blended with a mild toxicity that churns his stomach.

   “I drank it too fast to really savour any enjoyment from it,” he confesses, as it’s the truth. He didn’t care for the flavour; he just didn’t want to think clearly anymore. Which is a shame, really, for such exquisite port really shouldn’t be so carelessly wasted. But the damage is done now.

   “It’s that bad, huh?” Haldir’s face is sympathetic. It seems he is prepared to let Thranduil open up to him without responding with something passive-aggressive or sarcastic. But all Thranduil can do is look down at his hands and be very conscious of how frequently he and Bard had touched each other and how empty they feel now.

   When he does not say anything, Haldir continues. “How is Bard handling all this?”

   Thranduil’s heart gives a weak little jump at the mention of Bard and his stomach knots unpleasantly and his fingers grow numb.

   “He isn’t in the picture anymore,” he murmurs.

   “He dumped you?!” Haldir’s back stiffens and his voice hardens. Outside, Legolas shrieks as one of the twins pretend to shoot him with an imaginary gun.

   Thranduil looks up at this, embarrassingly aware that he is fighting back tears. It seems no amount of wine or napping during the day can prepare him for the renewed knowledge every morning that Bard may not come back into his life. He feels betrayed by his own emotions; foolishly letting them get away from him even though he knows nothing good can come of it. He had tempted himself and Bard despite so many lessons learned and all Thranduil is reminded of now is that there is no happiness to be found in falling; not anymore. It will still hurt when you eventually hit the ground.

   “I don’t know. He told me he needed time to think,” Thranduil finally says, swallowing thickly and trying to compose his emotions. But the rest of his words come out in gasps, unable to be stifled any longer. “This is all my fault; I should never have gotten him involved in my life. I was a fool to believe I could ever make him happy.”

   Thranduil falls forward against Haldir’s shoulder, feeling his friend’s arms around him. It is not the same as having Bard, but it is comfortable and warm and caring and, most importantly, it is something.

   “I thought this would be different, but I was clearly kidding myself. I thought, just once, I’d take a chance and have something good. But I fucked up again, just like I’m always going to do! I’m an alcoholic cripple and no one is ever going to put up with that! I’m a fucking mess. It’s no wonder Bard left; he deserves far better than what I have to offer.”

   “You’re a fucking idiot,” says Haldir bluntly. “And a tragic mess, to be sure, but anyone would be blessed to have a love like yours. I’ve never met anyone who falls so deeply and honestly in love as you do and you might think that a flaw, but I think it makes the receiver of that love the luckiest person in the world. To be loved by the likes of you would be a true gift.”

   “Not if it gets them on the front cover of a tabloid! No affection of mine is worth the shame Bard must be suffering. He had every right to leave and he shouldn’t come back because I’m selfish and pathetic and I’m just going to cling to him like a worthless leech if he does!”

   Thranduil’s head is pounding now and the tears are coming heavy and fast, suffocating him as he tries to hold them back, but to no avail. Haldir’s hands rub his back until it is over and the misery dies in the back of his throat. He wishes he could cry forever, despite knowing it won’t bring Bard back or repair the damage that has been done. For once, Thranduil just wants _some_ relief from the numbness in his chest.

   His teary confession is cut short, however, when the sound of a door slamming and the pattering of feet meet Haldir and Thranduil in the sitting room. Thranduil dries his eyes quickly, feeling foolish, but perhaps slightly better; slightly cleaner. Or dirtier. Slightly _something._

   Legolas approaches them, Rúmil and Orophin at his heels. They are two years older than Legolas and tall and strapping for their age with round faces and hair of sandy brown and eyes like the earth after rain. If Haldir is anything to go by, they will grow into very handsome people.

   “Ada, can you make us egg-in-a-basket?” Legolas inquires eagerly. “I haven’t had breakfast yet.”

   Thranduil nods immediately, feeling badly for his son who must weather his poor resistance to alcohol when it tempts him. He would drown himself in wine if he knew it would ease the ache in his heart, but even then he does not think he could put Legolas through the consequences of such dramatics.

   Haldir joins Thranduil in the kitchen, finding bread and eggs while Thranduil ignites the stove and gets a pan.

   “Call him,” Haldir insists gently, picking up their stolen conversation.

   Thranduil gives his friend a scathing expression, but his heart misses a beat at such a thought. Bard wants to be left alone, so alone is where he will be left. Thranduil does not feel it is his place to go crawling back to him, no matter how much he desires to.

   “Is it too early to keep drinking? You’re making me want to,” he remarks bitterly.

   From a top drawer he retrieves a knife. But, instead of using it, he stabs it into the butter so hard it sinks through and hits the counter underneath, startling Haldir next to him. It does nothing to relieve his resentment or despair, and now there is a hole in his butter.

   “He doesn’t want me to call him,” he growls, pulling the knife out dejectedly.

   Haldir sighs, setting out some bread. “What did he say?” he asks.

   “When?”

   “When he left; did he ask you to call him?”

   Thranduil does not meet Haldir’s gaze, his stomach twisting guiltily.

   “Yes,” he mumbles into his jumper. “But not until it everything is over.”

   Haldir hits Thranduil in the chest somewhat brutishly, his expression hard.

   “At this rate, it will not be over for weeks and Bard is going to be wondering why you’re being such an arsehole! Call him; I’ll do this.” Haldir takes the knife.

   “It’s ten in the morning,” Thranduil argues weakly.

   “This isn’t early for respectable people,”

   “I’m perfectly respectable,” he retorts crossly, though evidence suggesting otherwise surrounds him in empty wine bottles and dirty glasses.

   He grabs his phone from the coffee table and his cane from the floor and retreats upstairs to his study. He wonders if Haldir is right, for there is seldom a time when he isn’t. Thranduil supposes he and Bard have both been waiting for the other to call first when all along it had to be him, because Bard would not know anything about the situation.

   Thranduil feels utterly dense for not having realized this sooner. However, given how quickly his self-pity and culpability had manifested itself back into his thoughts, it probably may have been many weeks more before he called Bard, just as Haldir suggested. This only makes Thranduil feel worse, if it were possible, but simultaneously he feels grateful to his friend, who seems to have a great deal more sense regardless of his younger age.

   Thranduil sits down on the lounge in his study and takes a deep breath, preparing himself. No doubt Bard will be furious for having heard nothing all week, but if Thranduil delays this, it will only develop into something far worse.

   He presses the call button on Bard’s contact number and listens to the ringing, his heart rampaging in his chest.

   “It’s about time,”

   Maybe it is cliché to consider, but hearing Bard’s voice only makes Thranduil miss him more. He misses the murmurs of the bedroom when the sun is rising and the earth is damp and cold and he misses the tenderness of Bard’s hands in his hair and against his neck and he misses the smell of strong coffee without cream and the way their knees bump underneath the table at meal times and how the smell of the fire got into Bard’s jumpers at night and the long walks they took when the stars were high and the world forgotten in the treading of moonlight. Thranduil misses Bard so much he thinks his heart will collapse from the agony of it.

   “Hello?”

   He has been silent for a long time, which is somewhat counter-productive in the endeavour to hear Bard’s voice again.

   “How are you?” he utters.

   Bard chuckles and Thranduil can feel his fingers again.

   “I’m okay. A bit overwhelmed, perhaps. I’ve had people with camera’s trying to find me at school,” says Bard, though there is amusement in his tone. “I’m very good at avoiding them. I don’t think they managed to take any photos as of yet.”

   Thranduil feels sick at the thought even so.

   “I’m so sorry; this is my fault,” he mumbles.

   “No, it isn’t,” Bard reasons. “The blame is not on your shoulders, and I would not seek to place it there. I can only imagine what an awful time you must be having. Did you get in touch with Oakenshield?”

   “No,” Thranduil sighs. “He’s indisposed in _Finland_. He fled as soon as the issue was released and there has been no word from him. I am in connection with his lawyer, however, and his nephews, though there is little they can do.”

   “I wish there something I could do to help,”

   Thranduil does not speak at this, for he knows exactly what might help, but is unable to bring himself to voice it. He is closing himself up again, he realizes, and perhaps it is for the best. But he wants dreadfully to ask Bard to come back to him, even for just a day, or an hour. Hell, he would be satisfied if Bard came back to him in a dream, but even in sleep Thranduil is not gratified, no matter the yearning in his heart.

   “I’m sorry I left you to endure this on your own,” Bard continues.

   “It’s fine,” Thranduil interjects, because it is, in some ways. It must be fine. “I would not ask you to sacrifice your family or your career for my sake. You have done so much already.”

   “And I would gladly do more, if I could, but work is stressful, and I promised to be here for the kids,”

   “How are they?”

   “They get asked a lot of questions at school, but they’re handling it well. Sigrid just insists my name is Brad, not Bard. I personally think it’s a dead giveaway,”

   Thranduil laughs at this and his heart beats differently.

   “How’s Legolas?” Bard returns.

   Thranduil is uncertain of how to approach this question. He does not know how his son truly fairs, and this troubles him immensely.

   “I’m not sure. He doesn’t know about the article; he’s too young to be concerned with it. I wonder, though, if he is coping well at school. Has he spoken to you at all?”

   “Not more than usual. He comes to class on time – with those horrific sandwiches of yours – and he’s quiet and then he tells me his favourite part about the lesson at the end of the day,” Bard replies. “Why? Is something wrong?”

   “I am worried he is being picked on,” Thranduil relays gingerly.

   “The twins in my class aren’t very nice to him… as far as I’m concerned he just ignores it. But I’ll keep a closer eye on them,”

   “Thank you,”

   There is a moment of silence, and then Bard says, “I miss you.”

   There is warmth in Thranduil’s chest at these words, for it is good to be missed, and he would not want to be missed by anyone else except Bard.

   “I miss you too,” he mumbles.

   “You know, when I said I needed time to think, I didn’t mean I wanted to be excommunicated from you,”

   “And I was supposed to simply know this?” Thranduil retorts.

   This is met with more laughter. “I guess I wasn’t very concise about the details. I was going to call a couple of times, but I figured you were busy.”

   Busy attempting to achieve liver failure, perhaps.

   “I haven’t been busy,” Thranduil admits. “The waiting is a strain, if I am honest. I would just like this to be over as quickly as possible.”

   “Will you take Oakenshield to court?” Bard inquires.

   “If I must, though I suppose I ought to reason with him first. His refusal to return to England has my patience wearing thin, however,"

   “What will you take as compensation? The cost has been dear, but it isn’t as though money will make it better,” Bard muses.

   “No, it won’t. Money does not tempt me – especially when it is as filthy as his. Be that as it may, I have not really thought of compensation,” Thranduil counters.

   This is very true. He has thought long and hard of the things he might, and probably will, say to Thorin Oakenshield, but when brought to contemplate what terms of compensation he might agree upon once the vermin relocates to England, Thranduil finds himself rather lost. There is little – if anything at all – that might repair or repay what has been done.

   “The interview was very – uh – ableist,” Bard prompts carefully. “And homophobic. Perhaps you could tackle this from that angle?”

   “How do you mean?” pursues Thranduil, curious now, for always he values Bard’s opinion.

   “I’m not an expert, but surely Oakenshield’s reputation might be hindered if what he lied about was brought to a more serious light. I mean, it is one thing to fabricate an interview, but quite another to make it as offensive as he did. It says a great deal about his character and where his morals truly lie. I don’t think other people with Cerebral Palsy – for example – would appreciate such a jest towards your disability.

   "And don’t get me started on the gay community. They likely hate you now, but they’ll hate Oakenshield more when they find out his lie is a joke on their very existence. No media of any respect would want to be written off as homophobic.”

   “You mean to humiliate him?”

   “Sort of. It would be the ruthless destruction of his precious magazine rather than humiliation. You could bring its demise if you play your cards right,” Bard concludes.

   “I suppose I do have a lot of cards... I am suspicious, though. Oakenshield’s motive for this interview is questionable. He understood how much he would lose, so why did he publish it?”

   “Perhaps he didn’t think you’d fight back?” Bard supplies helpfully.

   “No, he knows me too well for that…”

   Thranduil shakes his head, feeling overcome and muddled by these questions, for they are gradually building and there are no answers to be paired with them. It is too early and he is too hung-over and Bard’s voice is too lovely.

   “I need to plead my case first,” he says assuredly. “Then I can think about my next move.”

   Bard makes an agreeing sound. “You’ll make the right decision,” he claims, his tone firm and kind.

   “And then you will come back?” Thranduil speaks before he can think, and detests himself, for he sounds desperate now, which he is, but that isn’t really the point. He does not want Bard thinking less of him for it.

   Bard is silent for a moment. It feels like an age passes before he answers.

    “You thought I left?” he murmurs, sounding somewhat astounded. “God, you’re a handful. It’s no wonder you haven’t called.”

   “But I thought –”

   “I said I was benching myself. That means I’m still available to play if you need me,” Bard clarifies. “I’m here for you, too, if you do need me. I would not subject you to solitude.”

   “Your metaphor is stupid,” Thranduil bites back testily.

   Bard hums with merriment. “You’ve never objected to them before,” he says.

   “Poetry and twisted metaphors are not the same thing!”

   “Well, then, I will be more articulate next time, and maybe you will call me sooner!”

   “That’s not fair! You wanted space and that is what I gave you. Don’t act like it has been easy for me; I have very nearly drowned myself in wine in an attempt to stop missing you as much as I do!” Thranduil confesses, the words leaving him before he has a chance to check them.

   Bard sounds close to tears with laughter through the telephone and Thranduil, feeling distinctly riled and annoyed, prepares to deliver quite an onslaught of… affectionate abuse. Perhaps the long week of tension and emotional strain is finally causing him to snap. But his abrupt irritation is short-lived.

   “Oh, I love you,”

   The silence that follows is thick and heavy and it suffocates Thranduil, closing around his throat and chest and eyes, like millions of tiny stars trying to making him disappear. He wants to say something, but the words are stuck in his chest, squirming and crying and screaming as the silence carries over five seconds.

   “Fuck,”

   The line goes dead and Thranduil breathes again.


	15. Rain

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  *****Trigger warnings: the usual - q slur, ableist slurs, homophobia.** I gotta keep this realistic, sorry friends :c it's all about fighting back against this stuff!
> 
> Also, addressing the Arwen - Celebrían - Galadriel situation for those of you who might have picked up on it, it was too well set-up for me to change, so I did a bit of tweaking back in chapter 8 or 9 and Galadriel is in her 60s okay thanks that's all.
> 
> I apologize in advance for the ending.

Thranduil considers the situation he has been placed in. He understands it well, for he too blurted a similar confession to his late wife, another lifetime ago.

   It is not so terrible a thing to be loved and cherished, but it alarms Thranduil all the same. To admit fancy is one thing, but to be so quickly and enthusiastically loved is quite another. He did not think such a gift would ever be brought to him again and, as it the way of all wonderful things, he has spoiled it.

   “And?”

   Haldir is serving the food when Thranduil arrives downstairs, barely comprehensive to his surroundings. He pulls himself from his reverie and he smells grilled toast and eggs and coffee and sees three boys at the kitchen counter, eagerly feasting on their breakfast.

   Haldir hands Thranduil a mug and he looks down at its pale brown contents of coffee and wishes it were wine.

   “He said he loved me,” he mutters.

   “You two really don’t follow conventional relationship standards,” Haldir comments dismissively, opening the fridge to put the eggs away. “One minute you’re not speaking and the next you’re confessing your undying love for one another. You have no structure. It’s weird.”

   Thranduil looks up at Haldir. Their eyes meet and Haldir opens his mouth and closes it again and is silent for a long time as he understands Thranduil’s meaningful gaze. Behind him, the three boys are practically inhaling their meals, but Thranduil sees that Legolas is not-so-subtly paying attention. He approaches Haldir and their conversation continues at a whisper.

   “You don’t feel the same way?” Haldir estimates, his dark eyes wide with astonishment.

   “I do,” Thranduil conveys, chewing his lip fretfully. “But I’m afraid.”

   Saying it aloud only frightens him more.

  “Afraid of what; a little love? You’re honestly the most tragic person I’ve ever met,”

   Thranduil shoots Haldir a furious look and receives a smirk in return. He takes a sip of the coffee. It is not as good as Bard makes it.

   “I don’t know if I’m ready,” he says, though it does not feel right.

   Haldir shrugs. “No one ever is.”

   He says nothing else and Thranduil groans, leaning against the fridge despairingly. It seems his life is naught but problems and they are growing in number before he has the chance to solve them.

   He decides to leave Bard to make the first move. No doubt the poor man is screaming into a pillow at his indiscretion, and Thranduil needs time to think now as well. Whether he returns the confession or not, it will take no small amount of courage.

   He is about to sit down and continue the nursing of his hangover when his phone vibrates in his hand. Looking down at it, he is disappointed to see that it is his doctor, not Bard. Apparently he is not permitted a moment’s peace.

   “Hello?”

   “Mr Oropherion? This is Nimrodel. I’m just calling on behalf of Amroth to suggest that you make a follow-up appointment to last week’s. He wants to perform a full CT Scan to assess the injuries that may be affecting your Cerebral Palsy. Are you available to come in?”

   “I’m very busy at the moment,” Thranduil responds, still taking in this monologue with mild surprise. “May I call you another time?”

   “We’re happy to schedule you for another Sunday if it’s the only time convenient to you. He really wants to check up on you properly.” Nimrodel is persistent, but Thranduil is hung-over. He is in no mood to be pestered by his doctor or said doctor’s wife.

   “I’ll call you when I am available,” he says stiffly, and hangs up.

   “Who was that?” Haldir inquires.

   “My doctor. Apparently my last check-up wasn’t enough and he wants to do a CT Scan. I haven’t the time for this. I hit my head a month ago - it's a bit late to be looking for problems now.”

   Honestly, Thranduil does have the time, but the mental endurance required for him to visit his doctor would result in at least two days of emotional recovery; something he does not relish the thought of. His disability may not cease to weary him, but it is nothing compared to the strain of doctor’s appointments.

   He looks down at his left arm which has been bothering him recently, for its position is crooked now and awkwardly cramped. After the fall, it had been slow to recover, twisting oddly and painfully from its lack of use in a way that seemed to almost latch to Thranduil’s body. It aches less and less now that he is better, but it does not appear to want to correct itself back to its original position. Thranduil reasons that he might be saddened by this, but it is what it is and he ought to have seen it coming, really. His arm has been worsening in his older age from the strain of work and poor treatment in his younger years. His leg is manageable with a cane, but his arm has suffered from day-to-day use and apparently a blow to the head is its limit.

   Haldir stays well into the afternoon. It seems Rúmil and Orophin are happy to give company to Legolas, and Haldir has nowhere else to take them that would ensure they are kept entertained. He has Thranduil drinking tea and coffee instead of wine and encourages him to eat, even with the pantry bare of anything nutritious that does not have to be cooked. Thranduil knows he ought to be more vigilant and practical in taking care of himself, but he lacks the motivation to do so. Maybe he will do something about it tomorrow, or maybe he won’t.

   A storm creeps over the sky, grey clouds darkening the windows and a thin wind howling through the trees. Rain does not follow until nearer to the evening when Haldir has departed, leaving Thranduil still on the sofa, wrapping in a blanket and already finishing his second glass of wine. He flicks forlornly through a battered-looking book without a front cover and is wearing an orange and brown sweater. Perhaps he is being nostalgic, or perhaps this is just the way misery is.

   He pays little mind when two small feet arrive from upstairs. Legolas goes to the shelf of DVDs by the television and stands there in silence for a very long time, staring at them and trying to decide what he would like to watch. Then, he disappears to the kitchen behind Thranduil and creates no small amount of noise in the process of making a sandwich. Thranduil watches as his son smears brown sauce on the bread contentedly. After some deliberation, he gets a butter knife and cuts up a banana and sets out the little yellow circles systematically on top of the sauce. He squashes a second slice of buttered bread on top of this and returns to the shelf where he takes down _Brave_ and puts it into the DVD player.

   Sandwich in mouth, the boy scrambles onto the sofa with his father and settles himself comfortably on Thranduil’s lap, taking the remote control and pressing play.

   Thranduil puts the book down with his glass of wine and they watch the film together and he feels slightly more at peace. He realizes here that he needs to remind himself more often of what he does have. Perhaps he does not have Bard or a bed that is warm or Thorin Oakenshield beneath a heavy lawsuit, but Thranduil has Legolas, and that is enough. It has been enough for seven years and it will be enough for fifty more.

-

   The storm carries on into the night time. The clouds covet the moon and Thranduil sleeps deeply and soberly in his bed for a few hours until Legolas, made uneasy and startled by the intensity of the rain and the screaming thunder, climbs in and sleeps there too, his small hands curled around Thranduil’s hair.

   When morning comes, it is grey and sullen and the earth is damp and will be for the rest of the day. Thranduil wakes to messages and missed phone calls by the dozen. Groaning, he opens a message from Bard, sent at 2AM.

-          **I’m really sorry for what I said yesterday. It wasn’t my intention to make you uncomfortable… it just slipped out. Don’t feel obliged by it – just know it was the truth and I understand if you don’t feel the same way.**

   Thranduil rubs his eyes, processing the message sluggishly and deciding to call Bard later when he finds something to say in response, because immediately after waking up it might be something too rash or indecipherable to later correct.

   The remaining messages are mostly notifications of the many missed calls, but several others are all various people informing Thranduil that Thorin Oakenshield has returned to the country.

   He leaps out of bed urgently, disturbing Legolas and nearly falling over in with sudden vertigo. He calls Tauriel and she answers within seconds.

   “We’ve arranged everything as per your instruction,” she says without greeting. “He can’t leave again without getting arrested now. We have him!”

   “Thank goodness,” says Thranduil, exhaling, though his pulse surges. “Arrange a meeting for tomorrow morning. I want everyone there; Kili and Fili as well.”

   “Of course,”

   “I’ll be at the office soon.”

   He hangs up and hastens to ready himself. He showers and dresses and calls Galion, asking him to babysit Legolas. He says he will be over in a moment and Thranduil calls a taxi.

   “Can I come to work with you today?” Legolas asks his father from the bed, his messy curls still lost in dreams of starlight.

   “Not this time,” Thranduil says apologetically, gracing a kiss on his son’s forehead as he does his tie. “I’m going to be too busy today. But I will come home soon, okay?”

   “Okay,”

   The doorbell rings and Thranduil takes his cane from against the bedpost. He waves goodbye to Legolas and meets Galion downstairs, who has let himself in and is indicating the taxi waiting outside. Thranduil thanks him and departs for work, his hair still wet and shirt untucked.

   He spends a long five hours in York, going over legal matters and drinking his weight in coffee with Tauriel and his lawyer, Celebrían. Tauriel did not even go to the effort to dress appropriately for work, sporting sweatpants and a jumper and mismatching socks. She had not thought to put on shoes, either, and her hair is dirty and she keeps the hood of her jumper over her head. But she is nonetheless incredibly alert and on task, organizing papers and highlighting useful laws and rules at the nod of Celebrían, who seems to be enjoying her new case for its scandal. She is exceedingly helpful and Thranduil knows Elrond’s wife to be almost savage in her defences, besting only him in making others feel something like bubble-gum stuck beneath a shoe. Thranduil admires her strengths, but is wary of her weakness for gossip as well.

   “I heard Arwen took care of you while you were in hospital,” she comments when they take a break at the large table at the back of the office and indulge pastries and coffee from the café next door.

   “You know Arwen?” Thranduil enthuses with interest, tearing at a croissant with his fingers, not feeling quite as hungry as Tauriel, who proceeds to stuff an entire donut into her mouth with an impressive lack of shame, alleviating her fingers to use her mobile phone, her thumbs a blur on the screen.

   “She’s my daughter,” says Celebrían with a smile. “She said she remembers you from when Legolas was born.”

   “How strange to be so well recalled,” Thranduil contemplates humbly. “I imagine she has supervised the birth of many children.”

   Celebrían shakes her head, still smiling, as though she is reminiscing fond memories. “Your wife was her first ever delivery,” she clarifies. “And it was not long after that she decided to return to university and become a doctor instead. A wise decision, if I may say.”

   Thranduil nods in agreement, though he doesn’t really have an opinion on such things. It is just good to be remembered for something other than his books.

   The small company sort through more paperwork following lunch and when Fili calls to confirm the meeting for tomorrow morning, it brings the day to an end. Tauriel drives Thranduil back home in her Audi to save him a taxi fare, but she throws the small sports car onto the road and drives recklessly, interweaving larger cars and narrowly missing red lights. Thranduil grips the edge of his seat very tightly and is genuinely surprised when he makes it home in one piece.

   “Will you ask Bard to the meeting tomorrow?” Tauriel inquires as he shakily extricates himself from the vehicle, if a vehicle is what it can be called. Wet gravel gives way to his cane and he rests heavily on it, his knee aching from the confined space.

   “The less he is involved, the better,” he affirms. “I’ll not have him give testimony to something that he does not need to be concerned with.”

   “But he’s involved whether you like it or not; perhaps it would be a wise move to have him speak his part. I’m sure there is much he would like to say,” she contends.

   Thranduil shakes his head. “It will only bring public truth to the content of that interview. It is best he stays out of it.”

   Tauriel is attentive as ever in understanding what Thranduil means and she leans across the seat inside the car, her eyes wide with worry beneath the hood of her jumper.

   “You would protest your relationship? I didn’t think you would continue to hide it.” She speaks as a friend, not a CEO.

   “It would be better if we did not have to keep it secret, but it will be easier on Legolas if it is made out to be false,”

   “I think you should pull Legolas from that school if it is causing this many problems,” she says boldly, her expression hard. “It is clear he gets no joy from being there, and if it means less strain on your relationship with Bard, then it is really for everyone’s benefit.”

   Thranduil ponders this for a moment. While he has thought of doing exactly this, his hesitation has always been present, for there can be no surety Legolas would fare any better at a different school. However, a second opinion sways this reluctance. Perhaps it is time he asked his son.

   “Either way, Bard is not required to attend,” he concludes. “If a court case follows, then things may change.”

   Tauriel nods an acknowledgment and bids farewell. Thranduil shuts the car door and she reverses down the driveway, screaming back the way they had come.

   Upon entering his home and hanging up his scarf and coat, Thranduil retrieves his phone and sends a text message to Bard.

-          _Dinner at my place tomorrow night? You can say no._

   Thranduil misses Bard terribly. Misses him like a lost limb or a favourite book. A day apart is too long and thus a week apart is more than he can bear. The longing burrows deep in his chest and poisons his words with an emptiness that cannot be filled and it becomes like that of a monster, feeding on the hours they do not spend together.

   But spring has come and with it smell of wet earth and warm sun and the gentle promise of new flora and early sunrises and birth after the death of winter. Still it is cold at the dawning of the season, but it is the kind of cold that can hope can stay. Thranduil likes spring and the goodness and loveliness it brings; thinner blankets and longer walks and maybe even Bard’s hand in his hand, but without gloves to restrain contact of skin. Always has spring been a time of harmony for Thranduil, watching the flowers grow in his gardens and opening up the windows to the joy of the coming summer, and he would only ask it be the same this year, as it has been many years before.

   Thranduil dismisses Galion with many thanks, promising to pay him double for his extra time. They exchange some talk and Thranduil tries not to let his defences down, for he is truthfully very nervous about the meeting tomorrow. He cannot seem to promise himself not to lose his temper with Oakenshield. Whatever the case, he prays it does not go badly for he will not cope well should things turn worse.

   Legolas forces upon Thranduil the devastation of his cooking adventure with Galion, which is supposedly meant to be chocolate chip cookies, though they are more chocolate than cookie, and then convinces his father to watch another film as they had done the previous afternoon. Seeing as he has nothing better to do, Thranduil huddles beneath a blanket with his son on the sofa and they watch _Robin Hood_ and Legolas follows the script with irritating accuracy, playing with Thranduil’s hair as he does so.

   Thranduil does not seek to ask his son about school. Not yet.

   He receives a reply from Bard about halfway through the film.

-          **Depends. Are you going to burn the food like last time?**

-          _You know perfectly well now that I can cook._

-          **Without my help?**

-          _Your help was appreciated while you were here, but completely unnecessary._

-          **You’ll have to convince me, then.**

-          **I was going to say I’ll bring wine, but…**

-          _No._

-          _Don’t bring wine._

   Thranduil cares less for the outcome of the meeting tomorrow now. The promise of seeing Bard again lifts his spirits considerably, and even Thorin Oakenshield could not seek to dampen them.

-

   “YOU WOULD SEE ME RUINED OVER THIS.”

   “Uncle, please,”

   Thorin Oakenshield is a disagreeable man at the best of times, but it seems his fury is not something Thranduil ever should have trifled with, no matter the amusement it provides. His deep and booming voice shakes the walls of the conference room, turning the heads of Thranduil’s employees as they sneak glances over booths and from behind doors. Tauriel shuts the blinds of the many glass walls, allowing in only the dull purple and grey of the rain outside. She returns to Thranduil’s side in seconds as he weathers Oakenshield’s onslaught with surprising patience, his vow to keep his temper in check fulfilled.

   “Have you any idea how much money I am offering you? A small smudge on your reputation and you will have enough money to see generations of your family through without financial hardship. I am willing to risk bankruptcy on your behalf,”

   “On my behalf?” Thranduil laughs cold and mirthlessly at such a claim. “You think I am such a fool to agree to these terms? There is no such thing as bankruptcy with that pathetic little magazine behind you. I do not wish to see a single coin of your repulsive riches, fraudulent as they are. No price can buy my silence.”

   “I am offering you a fair trade,” Oakenshield mutters loudly, his gaze heavy on the other man across the table. He is not yet out of steam, and the tension in the room is already stifling. Thranduil predicts it will not be long before fists are thrown should the situation become even more unpleasant; but not by him.

   “Fair trade?!” Tauriel shrieks, speaking up for the first time despite her position. “You made money off a lie! You have no right –”

   “Tauriel,” Thranduil warns.

   She reluctantly lowers herself back down to her seat, her scowl ugly and merciless.

   “My terms are these,” he continues calmly, though Oakenshield is almost shaking with anger. “Since you are so keen to donate your money, might I suggest the C.H.A.S.A or the Peter Tatchell foundation? I am sure they will gladly accept your money as an apology for your offensive tripe. As for myself, I will settle for a public apology, written into the magazine, of course. Then, publish your final issue and shut yourself down.”

   “And what of my journalists, and my editors?” Oakenshield spits. “You would subject them to unemployment?”

   “I am happy to provide them with references. Though I do not doubt experience in such a… _business_ as yours will acquire them with excellent job opportunities,” Thranduil returns, his expression mild, but his glare loathing.

   “I will not abide by these ludicrous terms! You’re mad!”

   Thranduil simpers briefly. “Fine,” he says conclusively. “I’ll see you in court.”

   “Please,” interrupts Kili from beside his uncle, his eyes desperate. “A trial will see us all in turmoil. What my uncle did was wrong, but surely we can come to some other arrangement.”

   “Shut up, Kili,” Oakenshield barks, standing up. Kili flinches slightly at this and a ghost of vehemence flickers over his eyes. “I’ll negotiate no further with this honourless prick. He’ll get what’s coming to him, make no mistake. The world doesn’t cater to queers and cripples.”

   Thranduil holds Tauriel back at this as she very nearly lashes out, her firsts curled and her vengeance burning red like her hair. Oakenshield takes Kili and Fili and Dwalin from the conference room, nearly shattering the glass door in his retreat.

   “He has no case,” Tauriel fumes. “He cannot win.”

   Thranduil is not so sure. His argument against Oakenshield is solid, but that did not make the law any less corrupt. The man is clever, despite his rage, and Thranduil will have to play his cards very carefully.

   “That went well,” Celebrían remarks bitterly. She barely spoke during the meeting except to relay the disagreement. She stands now with Thranduil and Tauriel and complains about all the paperwork she will have to do. Thranduil tunes her out.

    As they return downstairs for coffee and further discussion, Thranduil’s phone rings in his pocket. He pulls it out and smiles at the caller ID, for it seems he and Bard are amending their miscommunication. It makes Thranduil’s heart tremor, like it had done when they had first begun to know one another. It is as though they are starting anew, and it is good.

   “Hello,” Thranduil says coolly, very aware of the grin on his face, pulling tight at his eyes.

   Bard’s response is urgent and terrified and Thranduil’s face falls in seconds.

   “Legolas just left the school grounds,”

   “What?”

   “I saw Amras and Amrod picking on him and then he bolted out the gates. Normally, I’d call the police, but that’s probably the last thing either of you two need,”

   “I’ll be there right away,”

   “I’m trying to get a substitute teacher for the rest of the day,” Bard continues, sounding quieter and quieter though his tone does not change.

   Thranduil can feel his breathing beginning to constrict in his chest and a tightness forming around his lungs. His vision wavers. He cannot lose Legolas. Not Legolas.

   “Thranduil? It’ll be okay. He’ll be fine,”

   But Thranduil does not hear. 


	16. Taking

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **[***trigger warning for hospital scene]**.
> 
> ***Okay, so before you read this chapter I want to disclose that /I know what I'm doing/ and I know how grossly cliche this trope is and I'm so sorry but also not really.
> 
> Thank you all for your comments and kudos again! Thank you thank you! And I can't believe this fic made it over 10k reads! I am absolutely in awe.

His mind is a blur. All coherent thought is flooded with anxiety; crippling and hollow and terrifying, infecting every pore and every muscle. It is in his fingers and at the back of his neck and it is heavy on his chest like an anvil. The mental exertion it takes not to have a panic attack in the taxi is claustrophobic. It wraps itself around him, ravenous, and feeding off his worry. _Worry, worry, worry._ Always Thranduil has worried.

   He cannot even roll down the window because of the rain. It hammers against the window pane of the vehicle like laughter; laughing at his misery. He cannot breathe steadily.

   Very little accurately describes the feeling of losing a child. It is pure fear; raw and bruised and gasping for air like it is being pushed beneath the surface of a thousand oceans. Losing Legolas will not the same as losing a wife. He was born of Thranduil; flesh and blood and love beyond worldly measure and without him, Thranduil would be nothing. Nothing but the wretched ghost of a broken father resigned to haunt his memories, and be consumed by them.

   But there is hope yet, even if it is just the smallest of tremors shuddering through his chest. It is a fleeting, trembling hope, but it is there and it is real and Thranduil holds onto it, if nothing else.

   It is a long thirty minutes to the school and in that time Thranduil’s head clears just enough for him to call Galion and explain what has happened. He asks his friend to meet him at Ashville. With whatever grace or mercy he is given, Thranduil will find his son and bring him home.

   His phone immediately begins to ring again after he hangs up. It is Bard.

   Thranduil’s heart leaps to his throat – has he found Legolas? Is he safe?

   “Did you find him? Has he come back?” he asks desperately, his vision foggy with tears.

   “No,” replies Bard sullenly, not riled by the lack of greeting. “I just got another teacher to substitute my class for the rest of the day. I’m coming to help find him. Are you here yet?”

   “Nearly.” Thranduil peers out the window of the taxi, but sees nothing but a blur of brick houses and green grass through sheets of rain. Legolas could be anywhere. “Please, Bard, you don’t have to do this. I can find him on my own. You will surely lose your job if the headmaster finds out you have left.”

   “I don’t care,” Bard says fiercely. “Legolas is more important to me than any job.”

   Thranduil’s stomach lurches at this, his pulse quickening at such a declaration. “He is not your son. You’ve no obligation to us.”

   “It’s not an obligation; how many times do I have to tell you? I care about you and I care about him and there are things worth sacrificing a shitty job for. You forget that I am also a father. I’m going to help you.”

   Thranduil hears a car door slam on Bard’s end and then the sound of an engine spluttering to life. Thranduil uses the few seconds of silence to take a deep breath and calm himself what little he can. Bard is right, and it is time Thranduil stopped refusing his assistance. It comes from the heart and Bard’s heart is good and honest and something Thranduil holds very dear to his own and, as much as he does not want to admit it, he needs it; he needs Bard’s help.

   “I will search the streets. Go to the sports centre across the road; Legolas might have gone there for shelter,”

   “Okay.” Thranduil pauses, chewing his lip thoughtfully before adding; “Bard, about the text you sent yesterday – about what you said – I meant to reply, but I got scared and then Oakenshield returned and I was so caught up with everything –”

   “It’s fine,” Bard interrupts, his voice kind. “I understand. We can talk about it later.”

   “Yes. Yes, okay,” Thranduil agrees, feeling muddled. “See you soon.”

   “Bye,”

   Thranduil arrives at the school just in time to see a faded blue pick-up truck hustle down the road ahead. He pays the taxi driver and gets out, almost immediately drenched by the rain before he has time to open an umbrella, his fingers turning to ice against his cane. Looking out over the road, he sees the sports centre far across an expanse of green grass.

   He walks as quickly as his leg is able, which is still not very fast. His shoes and the cuffs of his trousers are soaked through from the wet grass and the umbrella threatens to topple from the lack of strength in his left arm. Thranduil wishes he’d had the sense to ask Bard to wait for him so they could search together, but it is too late now for second thoughts as he nears the sports centre, an obscure white building at the end of a football pitch.

   He is merciful to be sheltered and relieved of the umbrella, which has caused his hand to cramp in its current position, but Thranduil immediately begins the pursuit for his son, frantic and close to tears. Shivering in his damp coat and shoes, he tries to open doors and look through windows, but the centre is closed and dark. He pushes wet hair from his face, squinting, searching for the blond hair of a son he cannot hope to find in this rain.

   “Legolas!”

   Fear and guilt and loathing sit as a lump in Thranduil’s throat. He had always promised to be there for Legolas, always vowed to be a guide in times of trouble, and yet here he shouts and calls and bellows, his failure rearing at every vacant corner.

   “Legolas?!”

   He hears nothing but the rain dancing upon the tin roof of the sports centre, the sound of it reverberating through his lungs. Thranduil admits defeat and leaves to continue searching, limping his way through a parking lot and towards the nearest road.

   “Ada!”

   Thranduil nearly twists his spine turning around, his heart flying against his chest in relief at the sound of the familiar voice. Legolas sprints down the steps, his uniform wet and his face distressed and he has Thranduil nearly running as well before he is down on his knees on the wet tarmac and enclosing his son in an embrace so tight he fears he might crush the boy’s ribs.  

   It is good to feel him again; to hold him and touch him and know that he is alive and real and here. Thranduil thinks his lungs might collapse from the way his breath comes in gasps. He realizes then that he is crying.

   He does not want to let go of Legolas, but he does.

   “Quick,” he says thickly, heaving himself up on his cane. “Out of the rain, come on.”

   They retreat to the undercover of the canopy where Thranduil kneels down once more, smoothing back his son’s wet hair and forcing his tears to subside, though his heart can barely take much more repression. Legolas is together and safe and well, though he has the beginnings of a black eye, which Thranduil touches gently, his stomach twisting furiously, making him feel nauseous.

   “Why did you run away like that?” he cries, tears breaking again. “Have you any idea how worried I’ve been?!”

   “I’m sorry,” Legolas mumbles, hanging his head, ashamed and upset to have caused his father so much distress.

   It does not do to be cross for something that is not Legolas’ fault, but Thranduil is overwhelmed with the urge to yell. Never has he shouted at Legolas, and he does not do it now, but the anger is there; anger at the boys who picked on his son and the parents who raised them, anger at himself for not being more attentive towards Legolas’ troubles, and anger at the school and the headmaster for doing nothing to alleviate such vile behaviour, for Bard has mentioned it, but with a fruitless outcome it seems.

   “You cannot do that again, do you understand?” Thranduil says, attempting a steady voice. “You might have been seriously hurt.”

   “I’m sorry,” Legolas says again, his eyes glistening with tears as the words come out in gasps of panic and sorrow. “Amras and Amrod… they called me names and pushed me and I didn’t… I didn’t want to go back… I don’t want to go back…”

   Thranduil wraps his arms around Legolas again, his heart constricting painfully at his son’s crying.

   “It’s okay. You don’t have to go back,” he says resolutely. “You can pick a new school and we’ll start over. Would you like that?”

   There is a moment of stillness and then Legolas nods against Thranduil’s chest.

   “I will miss Mister Bard,” he sniffles into his father’s coat. “But he will still visit, right?”

   “Of course,” Thranduil assures – himself and Legolas.

   This reminds him. He pulls out his phone and calls Bard. It is answered in seconds.

   “You found him?” Bard’s voice is careful and calm.

   “Yes, he is safe. He was at the sports centre, like you said. Will you come and get us?”

   “I’ll be there soon,”

   Thranduil thanks him and hangs up, returning his attention to Legolas, who still weeps, but fights it. He rubs one eye of tears, leaving the bruised one alone. Thranduil sits on the concrete, relieving the strain on his knee and inspecting Legolas’ left eye with paternal concern, hoping it will not affect his vision or balance or look too poorly in the weeks it will heal. His face is swollen and red, with tinges of purple already showing around the eye. Thranduil wonders if it would be moral to sue the parents of the boys who did this.

   Yes, he thinks it is.

   “Let’s go,” he says, standing up. “We can meet Bard at the road and go home, all right?”

   “I left my bag at school,” Legolas mutters, taking his father’s hand and descending the steps with him.

   “Is there anything important in there?”

   He ponders this for a moment, ducking from the rain under Thranduil’s umbrella. There is a crunching noise in the distance and the rain falls harder again and Legolas shakes his head; no.

   “Then Bard will get it for you tomorrow,” Thranduil decides, thinking it best that Bard does not return to school today should he get into trouble before trouble is due. Thranduil feels badly that he might cause Bard to lose his job, but what is done is done. There is little to be helped about it now.

   It is a blessing to feel Legolas’ small hand in his again. Never has Thranduil appreciated its comfort and suppleness. He would have missed it around his hair at night.

   They hasten through the parking lot and down an entrance road towards the sound of civilisation and the promise of open air, for Thranduil is still coming down from the relief and adrenaline and feeling suddenly very tired and unable to breathe properly, the claustrophobic atmosphere of the school and surrounding buildings all proving to be a bit too much for him. He looks forward to home and maybe wine, or tea at the very least. Bard will likely insist on tea.

   As they near the main road, Legolas points to something, his brow furrowed. “Look,” he says.

   Thranduil does, lifting the dark shade of the umbrella to find the road ahead through the rain, misty and dark and ominous. Confused and apprehensive, he sees that a silver SUV has veered off the road and crushed into a lamppost, its bonnet bent around it and pushing it down to the ground, the driver unconscious in the front seat.

   His heart gripped with fear, Thranduil immediately pulls out his phone to call emergency services. He wonders what might have happened, attempting to repress bursting memories of his own accident, though they come with hate and vigour to his mind; the flash of white and echoing screams.  

   A few people have emerged from their homes, curious and afraid, already holding phones to their ears.

   “Ada.” Legolas pulls at this father’s coat urgently, his voice barely a whisper and his eyes averted from the SUV and clearly on more pressing matters. “Ada.”

   Thranduil is just dialling the last number 9 into his phone when he notices a paring of blue out the corner of his eye. He turns his head at last to look and sees a pick-up truck thrown upside down just off the road, its wheels finishing their last rotations.

_No._

   He does not want to believe it, but the rusted fenders and licence plate are familiar like a recurring dream is familiar and it is as though the world has been drained of all feeling. There is nothing; no sound, no people, no pouring rain, nothing except the intense blue of the vehicle and the red of the blood on its shattered windows. The world does not seem to turn.

   He must have screamed, but he does not hear it. He must have run, but he does not feel it. Thranduil is aware of an agonizing pain in his leg and in his hands and arms when falls to the ground and the broken glass of windows cut him and bleed him and make him feel something. He tries to pull open the car door, but his fingers slip at the wet handle and the smell of gasoline and smoke infects his lungs and makes him choke. He can see Bard in the driver’s seat, his face indiscernible from blood and his head held in place by an airbag and seat belt.

   Desperate, irrational, his entire body numb with shock, Thranduil vaguely hears footsteps and people shouting, but cannot relieve his objective to get Bard out of the car. He heaves his entire weight against the door, but it does not budge.

   “Stop! You’ll make it worse. Let’s get this car the right way up!”

   “Bard!”

   There is no response. Thranduil feels himself being pulled away and attempts resistance, but his arms and legs do not cooperate and he is sat on the ground at a safe distance. Though it is not safe – it is far – too far away from Bard.

   A blur of feet approach the car and a dozen or more people begin to launch themselves bodily against its frame. The metal groans against their efforts and it cries against the tarmac when it is pushed onto its side. There is a click and the door is wrenched opened and Thranduil gets to his feet, barely able to walk, stumbling over to the car as Bard is lifted out gently. His body is so small, suddenly, and so fragile. Thranduil feels sick.

_Please, please._

_Not him too._

   “Lay him in the ground. Is the ambulance coming?”

   “Check for a pulse,”

   “He’s not breathing,”

   “It’s here! Everyone move!”

   Sirens sound, piercing and bright, like they are from another world. Thranduil drops to his knees at Bard’s feet, ignoring the protests of the other witnesses as an ambulance crew arrive with a stretcher. They jostle him and speak to him with voices loud and quaking.

   “Do you know this person?”

   Thranduil only nods impassively.

   “Sir, I’m sorry, but I’m going to need you to answer some questions,”

   He says nothing. He cannot speak.

   “Ada,”

   Legolas is still there, his eyes wide and filled with heartbreaking dread. Thranduil looks at him, and it seems the world begins to turn quickly again. His head rushes with the force of it and he takes a deep breath, though it does naught for composure or relief. His thoughts are an unsteady haze.

   “Legolas, go – go back to the school. Stay on the footpath. Find Galion. Tell him what happened. Pick up Bard’s children. Take them to our house.” His words come harsh and hard and imperative. “Quickly; I am counting on you.”

   Legolas nods fiercely and, sparing a final look at Bard on the ground, he disappears back to the school, a maroon blur through the rain. Thranduil returns his attention to the doctor beside him and answers his questions, focusing on the words he is saying, not the shouting or the snaps of commands or the fetching of a defibrillator from the ambulance or the lack of response in the man unconscious before him. He holds down the urge to be sick.

   First his wife, now Bard.

-

   “He has just come out of the operating theatre; the accident caused a cerebral haemorrhage, but we have prevented any further bleeding,”

   “May I see him?”

   Thranduil has been at the Harrogate District Hospital for five excruciating hours waiting for news of Bard’s condition. His hands are sore from wringing his fingers and his clothes have dried stiff and uncomfortable and he feels like utter shit; the kind of wretched that not even the longest shower can remedy. Sigrid, Bain and Tilda are with him, lethargic and tense, their eyes red with grief and desperation. If they lose their father, they lose everything.

   The doctor looks at them warily, eyebrows knitted together and his expression serious. He holds his hands out in front of him placidly.

   “He’s in a coma,” he finally declares. “His condition is unstable.”

   He gestures for them to follow and he leads the way up two floors by the lift, then left, then right, and then down a narrow hallway blue and white and toxic. Murmuring voices and irregular electronic beeps creep through the grey carpet from behind doors and curtains and desks. The procession is silent, for no words of comfort can serve any justice to this.

   The doctor, who is young and grave, shows them into a single room where machines and wires and tubes surround a single bed where Bard lies, unconscious.

   “He is unresponsive. He suffered full cardiac arrest, as well as several broken ribs and fractured vertebrae –”

   The doctor goes to continue, but is interrupted by a mournful cry that shudders through Thranduil’s heart, causing him to inhale sharply. He might turn to see Sigrid sink to her knees, her entire body shaking, but cannot find it within himself to move. Bain crouches beside his sister, embracing her while Tilda, bold and bright and disbelieving, approaches the bed cautiously.

   “When will he wake up?” Thranduil whispers, barely able the get the words passed the lump in his throat.

   “We can’t be sure; a few days, perhaps, or a few months,”

    Thranduil nods. He can hear the steady beat of the heart monitor; remnants of a man he loves, and who deserves to know it, but doesn’t.

   Tilda begins to cry by the bed then; high shrieks and choking sobs like stab wounds. Thranduil goes to her, pulling her down into a chair and putting his arms around her. She curls into his chest and cries harder with howling anguish and over her shoulder he can see Bard, his face bruised and marred with cuts and deep wounds from glass, a breathing tube through his nose and his eyes unmoving.

   Thranduil and Bard's children stay for a very long time. The hours of the evening are slow and numb and little is said. Sigrid leaves often to the bathroom to cry in private, but she is strong for her little sister, whose eyes are wide and puffy from tears. However, Thranduil is most wary of Bain, who is pale and stares deadpan at the bed, uncomprehensive to his surroundings.

   They agree to go home when Tilda falls asleep on Thranduil’s lap. His legs are stiff and sore from her weight, though she is not heavy, and he did not want to rouse her.  He tells them they will stay at his house. He calls for Galion, who is at the manor with Legolas, and who arrives shortly to pick them up. Thranduil does not go with them.

   He is afraid to leave, for leaving will make it real; make it bloody and open and make it ache and burn. If he stays, they can be together, even for just a little bit longer and even just in the flickers of memories they have shared. Thranduil knows that if he leaves, he will take no gladness home with him, and there won’t be anything at all.

   And yet, nothing is gone; nothing has been taken. Everything is so profoundly empty, but it is there nonetheless. The spring will still find warmth in the trees and the sun will still rise over the mountains at dawn and the world will turn and it will grow and it will all mean nothing, just as the memory of good things will mean nothing, because life takes and takes, hungry and feasting and merciless, and it gives nothing back even if you are kind and beautiful.

   Thranduil sleeps eventually, his head on the mattress and his hand tight around Bard’s fingers. His dreams are distorted and without relevance and he is woken by a short nurse in the early hours of the morning, her smile moderate and her eyes honey brown. She tells Thranduil that he cannot stay and asks if he needs someone to call him a taxi.

   He shakes his head, but requests to use a phone as his mobile has run out of battery during the night. She takes him to the receptionists counter and he dials Galion’s number. His butler sounds worried, but Thranduil does not hold the line for very long. He speaks with the nurse afterwards.

   “Who is covering the cost for treatment and life support?” he inquires, his voice hoarse and quiet.

   “The NHS,” she replies. “We have no information to contact any relatives, however – do you know of any?”

   Thranduil shakes his head and the nurse’s face becomes severe.

   “He will be kept on the machine, but with no adult family to contact, it makes things difficult,” she says.

   “Do I qualify as family?” he pursues.

   She raises an eyebrow at him and then gives a light shrug.

   "It depends. I'm not in any position to stay," she says this before directing Thranduil downstairs where administration might accept his details. He follows her instructions and he very nearly forces the woman at the desk to write him in as an emergency contact. She only submits when it is clear that three minors are involved and no other relatives are present. Thranduil asks to be categorized under 'family' and then returns to the ward to sit with Bard. He does not wish to leave. There is as much comfort waiting for him at home as there is here, so why not stay? Maybe Bard will wake up soon. Thranduil wants to be there for it.

   But the world does not stop at the command of the grieving. Galion comes and he finds Thranduil still in the chair, dark circles around his eyes and his hands shaking. He moves with a terrible limp and his skin is pallid. He doesn’t look back when they walk away.

   At home, Bard’s children are asleep in their old bedrooms and Legolas in his. Thranduil thanks Galion and goes upstairs to bed though his entire body aches with hunger and exhaustion. He undresses slowly and climbs into bed and sleep does not find him for hours.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Cool, so, there's that. Caps lock is your friend and you're welcome to use it.  
> There are a lot of things I'm trying to address in this fic and I know it's sort of messy and fast-paced, but it's going to slow down a bit now.


	17. 32

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm very sorry for falling off the radar. Those of you who follow me on [tumblr](http://queerteddy.tumblr.com/) will know that I've spent the past month pretty much eating my own foot in an attempt to find some sort of inspiration, at which point I spit out the following 5000 words in about three days. I am very tired, but relatively pleased. I hope you enjoy it! It's a bit messy and lots of things happen, but I couldn't very well write 5k of solid angst now could I.  
>  **Trigger Warnings: alcohol mention/abuse, hospital scene (at the the end), general angst ******

On the first day, Thranduil wakes with a fever.

   On the third day, it breaks.

   On the fourth day, he visits the hospital. He holds Bard’s hand tightly, but doesn’t feel it.

   On the fifth day, Tauriel brings him work, irritated by his failure to make an appearance at the office. However, upon seeing the state of Thranduil’s home and his charges, she decides to stay and help Galion in the seemingly impossible task of looking after everyone. Bard’s children do not go to school, spending long hours in their rooms and wandering the manor. Thranduil keeps himself in his study, or at the hospital.

   He pulls Legolas from Ashville on the sixth day. The argument with the headmaster triggers a panic attack. It is hard for Thranduil to be among people; they are so noisy.

   On the seventh day, he drinks too much wine and is admitted to hospital after falling down the stairs. He is confined to a wheelchair. Tauriel locks the wine cellar.

   On the ninth day, Haldir threatens to take Legolas away, bringing on another panic attack. Legolas stays of his own accord. He sleeps in his father’s bed that night.

   On the twelfth day, Bain makes pancakes without burning them and introduces Faramir, who is humble and polite and admires Thranduil’s books.

   On the fourteenth day, Sigrid returns to school at last, unable to stand the quiet of the house. However, Galion is sent to pick her up at noon when she can no longer bear it. She visits the hospital with her siblings and comes home in tears.

   On the seventeenth day, Thranduil attends the court case against Thorin Oakenshield. The arguments are made redundant and declared a waste of time. No one wins and they are dismissed.

   On the twentieth day, Haldir takes Thranduil out for coffee, but being outside of home becomes too much too quickly and they go back home before any paparazzi notice him.

   On the twenty-third day, Thranduil is told that Bard’s condition has not changed. He tries to break open the wine cellar.

   On the twenty-fourth day, he walks with his cane again.

   On the twenty-fifth day, he doesn’t.

   On the twenty-sixth day, he notices that his gardens are beginning to flourish through the last of winter’s slush and rain. He covets the sunshine, despite the temperatures still falling below freezing. He walks at intervals and tends to the flowers and bushes. That afternoon, there is a vase of carnations on the coffee table.

  On the twenty-ninth day, Tauriel arrives with invitations for her birthday party. Bain and Sigrid and Tilda and Legolas are all invited with Thranduil to the dinner at her apartment. They go, eager and hopeful for a chance to reintegrate their social skills and keep good company. But they leave before midnight, and Thranduil sleeps until midday the next morning.

  On the thirtieth day, April arrives at last with real spring in its wake; sun and warmth and roses. Thranduil invests much of his time in his gardens, tending to the blooming Foxtail Lilies and Lavender. He has not been to the hospital for an entire week. It leaves him feeling empty, but at ease, wishing only that Bard was here so that they might share the spring together.

   He recognizes this shallow comfort. It is how he felt a month or so after his wife died.

   But Bard isn’t dead.

   “Thranduil?”

   Bain approaches. Thranduil almost mistakes him for his father, tall and dark, dressed in tight jeans and a jumper. It is only for a second by a trick of light, yet it is enough to bring back all the pain of the past thirty days. He takes a deep breath before Bain speaks.

   “We’re going to the art gallery; would you like to come with us?”

   Thranduil pauses for a moment, considering his capability of trying the public arena again. But, it is Wednesday, and the art gallery in York is not large, so there won’t be many people. He says he will go.

   He gets dressed properly again for the first time in nearly two weeks. Despite the promise of an arriving summer, it is cold still and he dons a coat and scarf and gloves.

   The day in York is long and lazy. Sigrid and Bain take turns pushing Thranduil’s wheelchair when it suits him and he buys them all small art prints at the little shop in the gallery. Legolas cons Bain into piggy-back rides and Tilda is told repeatedly not to touch the art, though she insists she cannot appreciate it just by looking at it. They get coffee afterwards at the café next to Thranduil’s office and bump into Tauriel, who scolds Thranduil for coming out for leisure but not for work.

   She walks around York with them, showing them quaint stores and alleyways to explore. Sigrid takes photographs with her mobile phone, storing locations for future reference. Thranduil finds himself having a good time, though there is still the profound emptiness of Bard not being there; like someone has cut him out of every picture.

   “Hey, isn’t that the guy who published the fake interview about you?” Bain remarks abruptly as they pass a man with curling sandy hair.

   Thranduil glances to his left and spots the familiar back of Thorin Oakenshield lurking down a narrow alley. Alongside him is another, shorter man who starts at Bain’s voice and turns around, frightened, his eyes pinpricked with suspicion

   Oakenshield turns also, clutching something in his hand and sneering.

   “Bilbo! You were supposed to be on look out!” he snarls.

   The sandy-haired man standing outside the alleyway jumps at being addressed, but quickly becomes livid.

   “It was a pretty vague instruction! I just assumed you meant the police,” he shouts back, crossing his arms.

   Oakenshield crams a wad of money into the hand of the man beside him and waves him off. He pelts down the alley and around the corner without as much as a backward glance. Oakenshield glowers at Thranduil, storming towards his friend, Bilbo, and taking him by the arm to leave.

   “What do you have there?” Thranduil asks carefully, making them pause.

   From the corner of his eye, he watches Bain inching closer to Oakenshield from behind Tauriel and the others, ever-so quiet even in those heavy boots. Thranduil continues stalling.

   “Paying for suspicious packages in the middle of an alleyway? What would the media think of you?”

   “It’s none of your business!”

   “Really? How insightful of you to say so, for I was just thinking the same of my personal life when I remembered how you flaunted it in your distasteful magazine with neither my permission nor any truth,”

   “You had it coming,” Oakenshield growled. “You embarrassed me all those years ago, Oropherion – I only sought to return the favour.”

   Thranduil smirks lightly, inclining his head. “Perhaps the fault is mine,” he admits tactfully, which confuses the other man.

   It gives Bain the opportunity to lunge forward and seize the package from Oakenshield’s hands, creating a scuffle. Crying in outrage, Oakenshield moves to attack Bain, but the boy is lithe on his feet and he retreats down the alleyway. Tauriel blocks the entrance to protect him, her tall stature towering over Oakenshield. When he violently tries to push passed her, she steps on his foot with the back of her heel and knees him in the groin, sending him sprawling to the concrete in agony.

   “Ah!”

   Behind Tauriel, Bain drops the package on the ground, his hands in the air as if it has burned him. Thranduil wheels himself forward to inspect the bag. It contains approximately two pounds of a fine, white powder. Thranduil feels a flicker of malice deep in his stomach when he sees it. A chance for revenge, he considers.

   “How the mighty have fallen,” he murmurs to Oakenshield behind him on the ground. “I always knew you to be a sketchy character, but I did not think you would sink _this_ low.”

   Oakenshield scrambles forward and snatches the bag from Bain’s feet, scowling. He is heaved to a standing position by Bilbo, who looks worried and eager to go, his eyes dancing to Sigrid, whose expression is convincingly innocent, though there is no truth in it.

   “Tell whomever you wish,” Oakenshield spits, limping slightly. “No one will believe your word against mine.”

   Bilbo pulls him away down the street and into a waiting car on the curb. Once out of earshot, Thranduil looks to Sigrid, hoping perhaps beyond hope she has done exactly what he thinks she has done.

   She inhales deeply and pulls out her mobile phone from the pocket of her coat, switching it on and typing in the password to unlock it. She studies the screen for a moment and her face breaks into a grin.

   “I got it,” she whispers.

   She turns the phone screen to Thranduil and he sees the photo she took by accident of the alleyway, Thorin accepting the package from the other man. It is unmistakably him; no form of media would dare question it.

-

   “What will you do with it?” Sigrid asks Thranduil that evening as she transfers the photograph to his phone.

   The atmosphere is intensely hollow; as though it is impossible to be warm. They are sitting by the fire with Bain and Legolas and Tilda roasting marshmallows, for the spring persists to be cold and they are tired from a long day spent among community, no one able to endure constant social interaction for long. But it was a good day, unlike the many they’d had before.

   “I’ll send it to _Imladris_ ,” Thranduil says, accepting the multimedia message.

   “ _Imladris_? The talk show?”

   “I am friend to the host. He has no love for Oakenshield either, so this will cheer him up,” he explains, taking a sip of tea.

   He finds Elrond’s phone number and sends the photograph. The image can easily be used for Blackmail, but Thranduil thinks it is time Oakenshield paid the price for his disgusting habits – recreational and celebrity. There are dozens of ways for Thranduil to resecure his reputation. This photograph, however, will see Oakenshield completely ruined, without a hint of remorse on Thranduil’s part.

   He retires early, leaving Bard’s children to talk away the remainder of the evening. They have become closer with one another, holding on to what family they have left. Thranduil does not blame them for the state they are in – skipping school and sleeping late. He wishes for Bard’s return just as much as they do.

   For now, however, he understands his role in their lives. With no other guardians in close proximity, Thranduil has taken up the task. He would not see them in foster care with strangers or distant relatives far away. And it is nice, he thinks, to know them better and show them that he is there for them, and they for him. The roughest storms must be weathered together.

   Thranduil takes Legolas up to bed, leaving the wheelchair at the foot of the stairs. They brush their teeth and Thranduil reads him a little bit of _Peter Pan_ and then tucks him in.

   “Are we going to visit Bard tomorrow?” he asks tiredly, rubbing his eyes.

   Thranduil sits on the bed heavily, his heart constricting slightly.

   “You need to study. Galion says you are falling behind on your math,”

   Legolas pouts. “Galion’s questions are too hard,” he complains.

   “But when you go to a new school, you’ll be smarter than all the other kids in your grade,” Thranduil reasons.

   “I don’t care if it makes me smarter. I don’t like math,” Legolas insist with a shrug beneath the covers.

   Thranduil laughs. “Perhaps over Easter we will go to the hospital,” he amends. “And we can give the lovely doctors and nurses some chocolate eggs.”

   “Okay,” Legolas agrees.

   He rolls over and shuts his eyes, squirming for warmth and sleep. Thranduil kisses him and turns off the light. Down the hall, he bumps into Sigrid on her way to her room.

   “Excuse me,” he apologizes.

   She blinks up at him, chewing her lip thoughtfully, as if to say something. He waits.

   “I know it probably doesn’t seem like it, but we’re really grateful to be here,”

   Thranduil cocks his head to the side, curious and uncomprehending. Sigrid continues.

   “We are in your debt. I mean, if it weren’t for you, we’d be in France or something, staying with aunts we didn’t even know we had. So, thank you,”

   He smiles graciously, never expecting to be thanked for such a privilege. He has hardly been an adequate guardian; drinking in excess and sleeping away entire days.

   “I own a place in France,” he enthuses. “Perhaps we will go there some time.”

   Sigrid gapes in awe for a moment, astounded as always by the luxury of Thranduil’s life. Then, clearing her throat, she says, “ _Ç_ _a serait bien._ ”

   Thranduil’s smile becomes wider at this and she laughs, opening the door to her bedroom.

   “Really,” she adds. “Thank you.”

   “ _De rien,_ ” Thranduil returns.  

   Sigrid graces him a gentle expression and shuts the door behind her with a quiet click.

   Thranduil’s own bedroom is chilly when he opens the door. The window has been left ajar, expelling whatever heat might have radiated here. He may not have minded it once upon a time, but there is no longer anyone in his bed to keep him warm, so he shuts the window.

   He puts on his pyjamas and climbs into bed, stretching out his leg uncomfortably. It has bothered him sporadically ever since he fell down the stairs three weeks ago, requiring him to be in the wheelchair more often than he is not. He wonders if he will be able to walk again without difficulty.

   Perhaps. If he sees his doctor.

   Thranduil wraps himself in the duvet and closes his eyes, feeling a weight on his chest; a weight that is always there, but becomes heavier in the night time. He might have wept for his loneliness – for the bitter solitude he has been left to endure – but he falls asleep instead, scattered dreams taking him in an instant.

-

   In the morning, the news on the television is alive with talk of Thorin Oakenshield. _How scandalous. How sad._ Thranduil rises early, waking Sigrid and Bain and Tilda in his wake as he shuffles downstairs to tune into _Imladris_.

   “What time are they revealing the photo?” Sigrid mumbles sleepily, pouring coffee for everyone except Tilda.

   “In a few minutes,” replies Thranduil, tying up his hair and squashing himself into the sofa before switching on the television. He feels like an excited schoolboy waiting for the airing of a new episode of his favourite cartoon. Tilda curls herself up between his legs, rubbing the remnants of dreams from her eyes. Thranduil absent-mindedly brushes out the knots in her hair with his fingers.

   Bain seats himself as well, yawning impressively. It is unusually early for all of them, the routine in the household being that of retiring early and sleeping late. It is only Legolas who is up at the crack of dawn, pestering Galion and playing with the goat in the morning frosts. It is 8 o’clock, however, so Galion has him studying in the drawing room upstairs.

   On the television, Thranduil waits as the current report is concluded and the camera pans back to the talk show desk where Elrond sits with his two co-hosts, Lindir and Nellas. Thranduil thinks it strange, to see a long-time friend through a media lens as well as a personal one. Thranduil has known Elrond since they were young and likes him very much, though finding him a bit severe and sceptical in his professional state. _Imladris_ is popular for Elrond’s merciless critique of celebrities who have done or said something disagreeable or immoral. And with an intense dislike for Oakenshield, his segment was bound to be something of pure beauty.

_“So, an anonymous source discovered a certain magazine owner purchasing illicit drugs in the streets of York. I mean, look at this photo; it’s grainy, but unmistakably Thorin Oakenshield. What do you think about all this, Elrond?”_

_“Everyone knows Oakenshield for his ruthless outing of celebrities and their bad behaviour but, honestly, it was only a matter of time before he himself was caught doing something questionable. And drugs? It fits the theme of his magazine; trashy and toxic. Maybe we’ll finally see it out of stores and into the bin where it belongs,”_

   Thranduil shouts with laughter at this, accepting coffee from Sigrid as she sits beside her brother and sister. All eyes are fixed to the screen.

 _“I heard the police are already issuing a search warrant,”_ continues Nellas, who looks to be holding back laughter as well, though keeping her composed demeanour well. _“I mean, don’t get me wrong, Oakenshield is a nice guy, but he kind of deserves it?”_

   _“I’m not going to play judge and jury on what a person does and doesn’t deserve, but his blatant lack of respect for the general media and other writers and editors is utterly pathetic. I’d wager good money that the majority of the content in his magazine is fabricated. I haven’t read one interview that even_ sounded _remotely true…”_

_That’s clever…_

“Did you ask him to say that?” Bain asks, slightly impressed.

   Thranduil shakes his head, astounded. He takes a sip of coffee. It is just as good as Bard makes it.

   There is a pang of sorrow at the thought of Bard. Thranduil misses him something awful. It is like someone has severed a limb and he feels it all the time. Even in the midst of so much excitement, he cannot forget that Bard is not there to share in it.

   They watch the rest of the segment and leave the television on while Bain and Sigrid make toast for everyone. Thranduil is fascinated by their dynamic over food. They are constantly bickering, yet moving in sync just to have it all done faster. Legolas relocates from upstairs at the smell of breakfast and Bain sits him on the kitchen counter to help with toppings and spreads, which proves for disastrous results.

   And Thranduil only wishes Bard were here to see it.

   After breakfast, he thinks it is about time he went to work for once, remembering the overwhelming number of commissions he must overview and a CEO to conduct before Easter rears its chaos.

   “Can we come with you?” Tilda pipes up.

   Thranduil is slightly taken aback at her question, casting his gaze to the four children in his kitchen, keen eyes and hopeful smiles.

   “I do not see why not,” he admits slowly.

   Sigrid claps her hands delightedly.

   “I’ve always wanted to see a publisher’s office,” she squeals.

   “It isn’t very interesting,” Thranduil protests weakly. “There is a lot of paper.”

   They all shower and dress and cram themselves into the car for the drive to York, almost forgetting Thranduil’s wheelchair at the front door. He calls Tauriel to let her know he is coming in today.

   “Thank God,” she says with relief. “Celebrían is here.”

   “What for?”

   “She wants compensation for all the ‘pointless’ work she had to do for your case. Speaking off the record, though, I think Elrond’s popularity has her jealous and she’s bitter about their divorce. Nice work, by the way, sending him that photo,”

   “Thanks. She and Elrond divorced? That explains a lot. But, I paid her fee, and some. This is her job; tell her she will receive no other compensation,” Thranduil relays angrily. He does not want to deal with marital feuds.

   “Can’t you tell her?” Tauriel whines. “She’s so mean to me.”

   “I’ll let you have Tuesday off,”

   “Fine.”

   When Thranduil arrives with Legolas and Bard’s children, Tauriel greets them all enthusiastically and complains about Celebrían’s severity towards her. Thranduil shrugs it off and goes to his office where half a dozen or more heaps of papers await him, begging to be reviewed. He sighs and takes off his coat, lifting out of his wheelchair and dropping into the desk chair instead, preparing himself for a long day.

   He only completes about one third of the work, however, for Legolas does not stop barging in for this reason or another and Sigrid periodically pokes her head in with thousands of questions that Tauriel apparently cannot answer and Bain sheepishly apologizes for breaking the printer and Tilda quite simply sits and stares at Thranduil while he reads over manuscripts and commissions.

   After noon he checks his emails and abandons the effort, deciding to take everyone to lunch.

   “Since you’re going downstairs, can you deliver this to the shop?” Tauriel requests, handing Thranduil some newly published books. “And do you want me to review the rest of the commissions?”

   “Only if you have time,” Thranduil admits gratefully, balancing the books on his lap. “But just do the important ones.”

   “ _But they’re all important_ ,” Tauriel phrases sarcastically. It is something Thranduil often says to authors when they are sceptical of being commissioned.  

   Thranduil shoots her a nasty look, but grins. Bain takes the helm of the wheelchair and five of them go downstairs by the lift, waving goodbye to Tauriel.

   They turn left to the bookstore that lives alongside the office building. Inside, it is comfortably small and warm, the wallpaper humble and the sunlight streaming through windows high in the rafters of the roof. There are shelves high to almost ceiling point if there were a ceiling there to stop them, though there isn’t. Thranduil’s books look down upon the small troupe, organized alphabetically with little silver letters at intervals on the wooden shelves. The tinkle of a bell signals their arrival and Thranduil hails the man behind the counter.

   “Hey! What are you doing here?” Tilda gasps when she sees Haldir, carrying an impressive load of books and turning himself sideways to see who has entered the shop.

   “Haldir!” Legolas yells happily, bee-lining for his Godfather, who quickly relieves himself of the books and embraces Legolas.

   “I own this place; didn’t I tell you?” he says to Tilda, squeezing Legolas before putting him down.

   Tilda shakes her head.

   “You just said you owned a bookstore,” she rebukes.

   “Oh.” Haldir appears puzzled at this, but shrugs. “I thought it would have been obvious… Hey, more books!”

   Bain obliges this comment by retrieving the books from Thranduil's lap and giving them to Haldir. One copy is put on the counter while the rest are found a spot in the back room, which is towers upon towers of books, leaning against walls and against each other, indecipherable in their design.

   “You really ought to have this place tidied up,” Thranduil reproves, wheeling forward and gazing inside.

   “It’s my shop,” Haldir contends with a grin. “I don’t come into your home and tell you to fold your shirts for once.”

   Thranduil rolls forward and rams into his knees affectionately, laughing.

   Haldir takes lunch in the café next door with Thranduil and his four charges. He leaves the store under the care of another man, who introduces himself as Aragorn and looks perpetually tired, though is immensely cheerful and smiles toothily.

   They speak of small and careful things over coffee and pastries; Thorin Oakenshield’s appalling habit and Shakespeare and Tauriel’s birthday party. Haldir says he will join Thranduil on Easter Sunday for lunch and promises an Easter egg hunt, which has Legolas bouncing in his seat.

   All the while, Thranduil is aware of Bard’s absence. It is so profound he wonders that the whole world does not notice it as he does. He feels it in the creases of his hands and in the soles of his shoes and sees it in the rushing steam of the coffee machine and the bumping of strangers in the street as they hurry from where they are to wherever they are going. The absence is everywhere, and it is nowhere.

   -

   Easter Friday is spent indoors, rain lashing at the windows with devastating vigour. Legolas brings Archimedes in from the wet and the cold and the goat dozes at Thranduil’s feet while he sits on the sofa and reads commissions, desperate to have them reviewed and sent back as soon as possible. After brunch, he receives a call from Elrond.

   “Thank you for the photo,” he says after Thranduil’s greeting.

   “You’re welcome,”

   Silence follows.

   “Did you call to say only that?” Thranduil teases.

   “Oh! No,”

   He waits, stretching out his leg experimentally for something to do. Elrond has always been careful with his words. Conversations often hover around his sometimes lengthy pauses. Thranduil is used to it.

   “Would you like to get coffee? Tomorrow?”

   “I’m not making the trip down to Manchester just for coffee,” quips Thranduil, amused.

   Elrond chuckles.

   “I’m to Edinburgh to visit family. I thought we might catch up while I’m going that way,”

   Thranduil thinks this over for a moment.

   “Alright.”

   It is the thirty-second day when Thranduil meets Elrond outside a small café in Harrogate. He waves cheerily to his friend when he exits the car, wrapping a scarf around his neck to stay the chill. It is particularly cold today and it bothers his knee, but he is able to walk with just his cane for assistance. They hasten inside and sit down, indulging the warmth of the small shop.

   Thranduil realizes it has been a long time since he has seen Elrond in person; the last time being at Legolas’ birthday party in January. Having known each other since high school, they are hardly unfamiliar with one another, but their fields of work provide little free time, which makes Thranduil sad. There are few people he considers to be his friend.

   “How are you holding up?” Elrond inquires when a waitress returns with their coffee.

   “What do you mean?” Thranduil returns, slightly perplexed.

   “I heard about what happened.”

   He rolls his eyes, slouching forward slightly with irritation. It seems he cannot have any sort of privacy, even amongst his friends.

   “I’m fine,” he says shortly, spooning off some foam from his latte.

   “I only ask because I know what you’re like,” Elrond persists gently. “It can’t be easy for you.”

   Thranduil snorts at this. “When has it ever been easy for me?”

   Elrond grimaces and then adds, “I’m here for you, as I always have been.”

   “Thank you,” says Thranduil, smiling weakly. “Oh! Tauriel told me about the… the divorce. I’m very sorry.”

   Elrond sighs tensely and shakes his head. “I am just glad it’s over. Celebrían has been nothing but a headache for me these past years. Enough was enough.”

   Thranduil nods his head empathetically, but finds more and more than he does not understand. Does not understand why a person might willingly leave someone they have beared their soul to; someone they have sworn to protect. Is love so fickle? So easily misjudged? He does not want to think so.

   “It is good not to be tied down by another person anymore,” says Elrond, warming his hands on his coffee mug. “It leaves so much room for other pursuits.”

   “Would you not have tried to save the marriage?” Thranduil interjects, somewhat lost in his own thoughts, confused and distressed.

   “What for? Sometimes it is easier just to give up while you’re ahead. Or, in my case, when you feel you have suffered enough.”

   Thranduil does not agree with this. It might be weeks – months perhaps – before Bard regains consciousness again, if at all. A hundred thousand days might go by and still Thranduil would continue to wait for him, for it is far easier to wait than to give up in such despair, he thinks.

   “Besides,” Elrond continues with a careful gaze. Thranduil notices the way he is sitting very close, his hands inching across the table. “You are hurting. I am here for you should you ever desire some kind of… _company_. I know that sometimes mere friendship is not enough and –”

   Thranduil backs off abruptly, his heart plunging to his stomach.

   “No!”

   “I’m sorry – I didn’t mean –”

   “Excuse me.”

   Thranduil leaves his coffee untouched and abandons his friend at the table wounded and embarrassed. He turns a corner and slips unnoticed down an adjoining street, breathing heavily, his heart pounding with the first signs of an anxiety attack.

   He wonders, perhaps, if he might have taken up such an offer if circumstances were different; if he had never met Bard and remained unattached for just a few months longer. He had been interested in Elrond once, an entire lifetime ago when the sun had felt somehow warmer and he had needed a friend to help him through the long hours at school.

   But now Thranduil just needs Bard, so he goes to the hospital a few blocks away.

   The man at reception admits him almost immediately. He is recognized at the hospital now, having visited so often over the past month. However, letting over a week go by without so much as a phone call to inquire after Bard’s condition has Thranduil feel nauseous and weak. The hospital walls burn his eyes and churn his stomach, but he presses on, following the familiar corridors and finding the correct ward.

   He stalls before opening the door to a single room. Bard rests on a small bed inside, connected to machines and tucked in with several blankets to be warm. Thranduil wonders if he can feel it; feel that he might be cold in the remnants of winter that finds itself in spring. Perhaps even feel that he is more than just a body, left to waste and wain and be forgotten.

   But Thranduil does not forget.

   Bard looks the same, but different; his beard has grown out and his hair is longer. When Thranduil sits down in the chair, he sees flecks of silver among the black tresses.

   In the bitterest way, it is almost funny how one small accident has changed Thranduil’s life so drastically. It seems as though his life is constantly changing, jumping from one conclusion to another in a matter of days or weeks. If Bard wakes up, it will be different again; it will be a new adventure, as he used to say. _If, if, if._

   Thranduil takes up the good part of two hours sitting at Bard’s bedside. He lays his head on the mattress and plays with Bard’s fingers and tells him about how Bain appears to really like Faramir and that the boy is awfully nice. He talks about his beautiful gardens and the chrysanthemums and daffodils that grow there. He mentions Haldir and Celebrían and Sigrid and Tilda and Legolas, but not Elrond. It feels as though he is just informing Bard of all the things he is missing out on, like he has travelled long-distance for work and it is just another video call. Thranduil opens himself up and bleeds a thousand words and a thousand wishes, praying that Bard might hear it.

   Maybe it is foolish to hold on so tightly to a hope so fragile; fragile humans, fragile bones, fragile minds. So fragile that he cannot let go.  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Footnotes: pls don't hate Elrond, he meant well ok. Three cheers for Aragorn! who will be making a comeback in the next chapter. huzzah! I know Thranduil's love for wine is super cliche and at this point the fandom has absolutely had it with this trope, but I frankly love wine myself and I think it's a very real and honest flaw in his character and there, that's my reasoning for his alcoholism. If no one is excited about Bain's character development and the cute family dynamic they got going on then idk what to do with you. ok that's all please comment below and fuel my ego thank u ily.


	18. Andy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Trigger Warnings: hospital scene (pretty much a-given at this point), abuse mention (unintentional// non-abusive parents) and indirect ableism.**  
>  Italics are... memory scenes... How cliche. But they're there.  
> Also, special thanks to my beautiful and enlightening beta [Sammy](http://www.thranduilscars.tumblr.com) who is probably the most amazing and inspiring person on this planet. Thank you so much for putting up with me omg.  
> Enjoy!

_Thranduil was sitting at his teacher’s desk long after the school bell had concluded the day. He clutched a rolled-up poster in his small hands and twisted it occasionally to relieve some anxiety, fiddling with the elastic band around it. What is written on the poster is barely legible, but the messy scrawl reads ‘Cystic Fibrosis,’ as the heading; the disability he had been given to research and present to the class earlier that day. But that was not why he was there._

_He braved a glance to his teacher and she smiled gently back at him. Thranduil liked his teacher – she was kind and told interesting stories – but he felt foolish and awkward with nothing to say to her, despite the seriousness of the situation. The silence that came with waiting was thick and oppressive. It made his school shoes heavy and the collar of his shirt tight around his neck. He tried to revise in his head what he was going to say, but found he couldn’t recall anything worth mentioning._

_After a bleak exchange of coughs and sighs, the quiet was interrupted by two people entering, both of them tall and carrying a sense of importance about them. There was a stately man, long-nosed and wearing thin-framed spectacles and to his right a woman of singularly gifted beauty, her hair like a waterfall of stardust and her chin pointed and proud. Her high-heels echoed through the floorboards as she approached the desk with her husband, who was already greeting Thranduil’s teacher with formality. They had been called to discuss something imperative, and so their faces indicated tolerance for nothing less._

_Thranduil’s mother sat beside him, a delicate hand resting upon his shoulder briefly to show comfort. He gave her a weak smile but returned his gaze quickly to his knees as a stern discussion began._

_Thranduil felt hopeful, in a morbid sort of way. He wondered if he was getting closer to figuring out what was wrong with him, if there was something wrong at all. He wasn’t entirely convinced the pains in his body were unusual, but if they were, maybe he had a chance of receiving some help for it at last. Or, at the very least, he could get out of doing Physical Education. Coming home each Monday after sport was beginning to take its toll on his knee. He didn’t mind that he couldn’t keep up with the other boys, but it hurt and they teased him._

_He rubbed his left knee gingerly at the thought; it ached still from playing football that afternoon with the rest of his class._

_“What’s that?”_

_Thranduil pulled himself from his thoughts at the sound of his mother’s crystalline voice, realizing he ought to be listening._

_“It’s a physical disability,” explained Thranduil’s teacher patiently. “It distorts messages from the brain to the muscles in the body. Today we did a project on disabilities and Thranduil believes he may have symptoms of Cerebral Palsy. Another student presented it to the class and he claims to have many signs of Spastic Cerebral Palsy.”_

_“That seems awfully far-fetched. Thranduil, how could you possibly have symptoms? I’ve not seen any,” Thranduil’s mother said loosely, looking confused._

_“But my arm and leg on my le-left side do not work properly,” Thranduil argued, his voice catching here and there where words suddenly failed him. “And Glorfin – Glorfindel said it can affect just one side – of the – of the body.”_

_“And it is because of this fact that you think you are disabled? I thought you were smarter than that, son,” Thranduil’s father supplied, his heavy brow furrowed._

_“There is no certainty that it is Cerebral Palsy,” the teacher cut in quickly, sensing tension and misunderstanding in Thranduil’s parents. “But it might be safe to have his symptoms checked by a practitioner. Not child should have to suffer so.”_

_“Your concern is appreciated, but we ask you only call upon us if it is actually important,” Thranduil’s father concluded, standing before anything else could be conveyed._

_His wife followed suite, gesturing for Thranduil to follow. He jumped down from his seat, trembling slightly. He had not expected it to go badly. He was telling the truth – why did his parents not believe him?_

_He mumbled a quiet thank-you to his teacher and left the poster on her desk before catching up with his parents, dreading the drive home._

_-_

   It is the thirty-seventh day since the accident. Thranduil arrives at work in his wheelchair. Tauriel flitters about the building, energized for once now that her boss is present. She comes into his office, her arms full of papers.

   “Here are the latest requests for commissions, here is your coffee, and here are your memos,” she says officially, placing it all on his desk neatly as she speaks. “Celebrían is unimpressed that you’re not answering your personal phone, but I don’t know exactly what she wants. Dwalin also wants you to know that he’s not happy that you’ve shamed his client, though that’s really out of your hands if you ask me. _Atom_ books left a fax concerning some kind of collaborative assignment they want you to consider, which I didn’t actually understand. And Elrond has called about twenty times since Monday, but he leaves no messages, so I honestly don’t even _want_ to know what that’s about.”

   Thranduil rubs his eyes wearily, deciding immediately not to deal with any of this as none of it interests him, especially that last one.

   “Oh, here’s Bard’s mail,” Tauriel adds, fishing out a significant stack of letters from beneath the pile in her arms. “I picked it up during lunch. Lots of bills, it looks like.”

   “Thank you,” Thranduil says, accepting them.

   He begins to sift through them and arranging them into piles, but he pauses when he notices Tauriel still standing at his desk.

   “What is it?” he asks shortly.

   “My boyfriend doesn’t have a job anymore,” she relays quietly, but firmly.

   Thranduil gives his CEO a curious look. So much happens when he does not come to work regularly, though he does not see why her unemployed boyfriend is any of his concern.

   “Oakenshield shut down his magazine, Thranduil,” she whispers, eyes wide. “Police raided his house yesterday and have arrested him for drug use and possession.”

   “Oh,” is all Thranduil can manage to say, returning his attention to the letters.

   He feels no victory; no sense of accomplishment. He just feels numb and guilty.

   “Forgive me it isn’t my place, but I was wondering if we would offer Kili and Fili a job here? They’ve been backing their uncle and have lost everything. And – well – it will look good for you if word gets out that you’ve employed them,” is Tauriel’s suggestion. She seems very nervous about her inquiry, which amuses Thranduil.

   He raises an eyebrow, impressed by her boldness.

   “Have we any positions available?” he motions.

   “You’ll take them on?” she exclaims.

   “I will consider it.”

   Tauriel leaves Thranduil’s office with a confident look that he would not seek to deny her. He agrees that it may be a good idea, but honestly cannot think of a position for the two brothers. They would likely be useful in printing or editing, but there is nothing available in that area. And he is not so foolish as to put them into an administrative role, should they decide to run back to their uncle with secrets.

   Not that Thranduil has any, but it is better to be safe than sorry.

   He puts the thought aside for now and works on his commissions, which have quadrupled in quantity since the last time he reviewed them, though this is really his own fault for not turning up to work. He drinks a lot of coffee and pays Bard’s bills and at the end of the day – which isn’t really justifiable to be called as such since it is only two o’clock – Thranduil makes a phone call.

   “This is Fili.”

   “Thranduil Oropherion. I hear you and your brother are looking for employment.”

   “I’m sorry?” Fili responds, sounding distinctly stunned.

   “Tauriel was kind enough to suggest placement with me. I’m afraid I don’t require people with skillsets such as yours but I have a proposition for you nevertheless, if you’re interested,” Thranduil elaborates.

   Fili pauses for a moment, and then says, “What’s the proposition?”

   “I want you and your brother to bring something new to my firm. Pitch an idea to me and, if it has potential, I will put you in charge of it.”

   “Are you serious? Why are you doing us such a kindness?”

   “Don’t make me change my mind,” Thranduil says sharply, not wishing to convey that he feels responsible for putting Kili and Fili out of a job.

   “I accept,” Fili recovers quickly. “How long do we have?”

   “One week. I will see you on Thursday.”

-

   “So you have been in and out of a wheelchair for nearly three weeks now?”

   Thranduil nods, suddenly weary. He did not realize so much time has passed since his last fall. And an entire month has gone by since Bard’s accident. It doesn’t feel like a month; it just feels like time passing in no particular order, heavy and sluggish.

   “You’ll have to undergo treatment. At this rate, the strain you’re putting on your body will only further distort messages from the brain,” Amroth declares, examining a CT Scan on the computer.

   Thranduil chews his lip, wishing he hadn’t been so senseless about all this. He should have arranged an appointment when called, not weeks after when it is already too late. What would Bard say? He mentally slaps himself for such reckless abandon.

   “What kind of treatment?” he asks, hoping it won’t be medication, not that he is aware of any that help with this sort of thing.

   “I’ll refer you to a massage therapist for now. They will schedule weekly sessions and an exercise routine. I’ll ask you to continue using the wheelchair for a month to let your body recover and then we’ll schedule another appointment to see if there is any progress. If not, we’ll try something different.”

   Thranduil stifles a groan. An entire month in a wheelchair isn’t going to be easy. He thanks his doctor and leaves, meeting Haldir in the reception area.

   “How’d it go?” he says.

   “I am wheelchair-bound for a month,” Thranduil grumbles. He wants to say more, but quickly loses the desire to. He finds he has so little to say these days.

   “Do you want to stop at the hospital?” Haldir inquires as they get in the car.

   Thranduil does not have the heart to decline. Easter was difficult and lonely for the family without Bard there, even with the visit on Sunday.

   They pick up flowers at a florist nearby.

   Arriving at the hospital, Thranduil gets out of the car slowly. His leg pains him and is stiff. Haldir offers to get him a wheelchair, but Thranduil refuses it. _Just one more day without it,_ he thinks. He stretches out his leg experimentally, finding a click in his knee. Then he retrieves his cane and goes inside just as it begins to rain.

   He is admitted immediately to the ward were Bard stays, a sympathetic smile on the face of the receptionist. Upon entering the ward, he finds a doctor inside.

   “Oh, hello,” she says, smiling.

   “Hello,” Thranduil returns cautiously, his eyes flickering to the bed. Nothing is different.

   “His condition has improved,” the doctor says. She looks optimistic. “It’s about time, too. Once a patient is unconscious for more than four weeks we start to fear the worst.”

   Thranduil’s heart misses a beat.

   “What does this mean?” he asks. His voice is barely a whisper.

   “Nothing, yet,” the doctor admits. “We’ve recorded Rapid Eye Movement and some minor muscle spasms. This usually means he’s waking up, but there’s every chance he could suffer from another cardiac arrest if the strain is too much on his body. We don’t really like to give false hope about this.”

   Thranduil nods numbly, speechless.

   He stays at the hospital for the better part of an hour, listening to the doctor explain what happens when a patients recovers from a coma. The idea of Bard waking up feels suddenly incredibly real to Thranduil. He does not want to get his hopes too high, but it is still better than believing Bard might remain unconscious forever. It almost frightens him, having Bard back, even in just the smallest of ways.

   He puts the flowers in a vase by the bed. He isn’t sure why he bought them, but at least they will be there if Bard wakes up without him.

   He returns home that afternoon and informs Sigrid, Bain and Tilda of the good news. Perhaps it is only a false hope, but it is hope nonetheless, and they have had precious little to celebrate these past weeks. If there is any chance of Bard coming back to him, Thranduil will hold onto it. There are some things that sink too deep in the skin to ignore.

   Sigrid fights back tears when she hears the news.

   “It will be okay,” he tells her. “We’ll be a proper family again soon.”

   And it is enough just for tonight.

_-_

_“I don’t understand.”_

_Thranduil fought the urge to roll his eyes. What a typical expression to hear from his father. It was a wonder the man held that pathetic publishing firm together with the brains that he had._

_“I went to the doctor,” Thranduil reworded carefully, his patience tried already. “I’ve been diag – confirmed to have Cerebral Palsy. It is Hemiplegic, so it only affects the left side of my body, like I have told you.”_

_“It cannot truly be as serious as you make it sound. First crutches and now this? You shouldn’t go behind our backs to have yourself tested, Thranduil.”_

_Thranduil’s mother nodded at this, though she did not seem to be able to say anything. She looked close to tears, eyeing the crutches that rested by the front door as if they were a disease upon her house._

_“You have been seen, you know,” she whispered. “The neighbours – they have seen you in those awful things.”_

_Thranduil’s temper broke._

_“So what?!” he exploded. “If either of you had any sense, this would have been dealt with years ago! It is not my fault I cannot walk without aid or get out of bed in winter and it might not be so serious if you had the sense to give it attention when it was needed! I have spent my entire life struggling with a disability that you had the nerve and stupidity to ignore! You cannot condemn me for taking initiative for my own well-being.”_

_“You are being disrespectful, Thranduil!”_

_“I will do as I please,” Thranduil spat, glaring at this mother. “If I have to clean up the mess you made, I will not fall under your scrutiny, or anyone else’s.”_

_“Boy, you are asking for a beating!” This amused Thranduil, for his father was not a violent man._

_“What, dropping me on my head as an infant wasn’t enough?” he snarled bitterly. “That’s what the doctor said must have happened, since it’s not on my birth records.”_

_Thranduil did not know if it was true, but it was one way to find out._

_“That was an accident!” his mother cried, her expression mortified._

_“So this_ is _your fault!”_

_“That silly girl is putting ideas into your head! She is too headstrong in her beliefs,” his father rebuked, trying to change the subject haphazardly, clearly shocked by his son’s discovery._

_“Don’t talk about Andaeriel that way! She is helping me, which is more than I can say about you!”_

_“Enough! I don’t know what has gotten into you, Thranduil, but I will not have you shaming this family with such audacity. Do what you will, but do not let this invalidity come to light of the public.”_

_It was the end of the discussion, but it did not seem as though Thranduil’s parents were willing to abide by such insolence. He wanted to argue further, but found he had little else to say. He could not risk his position at home. While he lacked the support he needed here, he would be no safer anywhere else should he be disowned._

_He stormed out of the room, slamming doors childishly as he went. Deciding he needed to ease his temper, he put on his shoes and asked the butler to drive him to Andaeriel’s house._

_Thranduil found his friend climbing an enormous tree in her front yard which was overgrown with bushes and vines of ivy that crept around the wooden panels of the small house, making it look like a jungle. Andaeriel lived in a quiet neighbourhood. Her family moved down from Ireland the previous year and she and Thranduil had immediately taken to each other after meeting through mutual friends. Thranduil’s parents sneered at her family for being lower-class, which was why they did not approve of their son visiting, but he didn’t mind. Andy was worth the trouble. She was worth everything._

_He approached just as her legs disappeared into the branches of the oak tree.  She climbed like a cat, her hands strong and her body agile. Her long red hair bristled like fire alighting the leaves._

_“Oh, hullo,” she called when she saw that Thranduil was there. “Did you tell your mum and dad?”_

_Thranduil nodded. Andy adjusted her footing and then dropped to a sitting positioning so that her feet might dangle near Thranduil’s head. She kicked off her shoes and Thranduil awkwardly tried to catch them out of courtesy. She laughed._

_“Just put them over there. What did they say?”_

_“They think I am doing it just to bring shame to my family,” he replied testily. “They do not understand, though they confirmed it is my mother’s fault.”_

_“How is it her fault?”_

_“She dropped me on my head when I was a baby.”_

_“Seriously? No offence, Thranduil, but your parents are kind of stupid,” Andy commented._

_He sighed, not finding it in himself to disagree._

_“Are you going to come down?” he asked, for his neck hurt to look up._

_“Are you going to come up?” Andy countered, grinning._

_“I have Cerebral Palsy,” Thranduil protested weakly._

_She laughed again. It sounded like a thousand tiny bells. “Your lack of crutches tells me you’ll be capable of reaching this branch. Come on; I’ll be sure not to let you fall.”_

_“How do I climb?” he inquired, inspecting the tree sceptically._

_“Put your foot there – yes, that’s it – and then reach up here – see, not so hard.”_

_Thranduil managed to pull himself up, feeling his elbow crick from the pressure. He sat next to his friend and she smiled sweetly at him._

_“What are you doing up here?” he wanted to know._

_“Oh! There is a bird’s nest up there and I want to move it,” she said, pointing higher into the tree._

_“Why?”_

_“They are harassing poor Homer, so I will find them someone else to annoy.” Andy stood up as she said this, making Thranduil’s heart shudder with fear for her safety._

_Before he could stop her, she jumped and swung onto a higher branch, heaving herself up and up until she was at a decent height to die should she fall._

_“Please come down!” Thranduil cried, his voice breaking slightly from fright. “Your life is not worth risking for the sake of your cat’s comfort out of doors! Andy!”_

_“Shush,” came her voice from above. Thranduil could see her legs, but it was not nearly enough to make him feel better. “’The best things in life make you sweaty!’”_

_“Pardon?!”_

_For what felt like a very long time, Thranduil heard nothing except the rustling of the leaves, which he reasoned was a good sign, for the sound of screaming and the crunching thud of bones on the ground was likely to be far worse. He watched Andy’s feet with increasing fear, wringing his shirt in his hands._

_She did come back down safely, however, with a bird’s nest in her hand. She navigated her way down the tree and to Thranduil’s side, though this did not lessen the quick tremor of his heartbeat for some reason. Her eyes sparkled with adrenaline and enthusiasm. She was beautiful._

_“Edgar Allan Poe said that,” she said._

_Thranduil blinked incomprehensively._

_“’The best things in life make you sweaty’.”_

_“Oh.”_

_“Are you okay?”_

_“No! You frightened me!”_

_“I meant about your parents.”_

_“Oh.”_

_Thranduil grimaced, unsure of how to express his feelings about it. He was angry and upset and hurt and this was already too much without his strange feelings for Andy. And she was so beautiful and kind that he would feel shameful to spoil her with such grief._

_“I do not understand why mother and father will not acknowledge my condition. The way they disregard it makes me feel like a burden,” he confessed quietly._

_“Maybe they’re just scared,” Andy reasoned sympathetically, patting his hand. “Parent’s don’t really sign up for having kids with disabilities – which really makes me question why they have kids at all – but this is probably very new and frightening for them. I suppose you’re going to have to tackle this head-on if you want their support.”_

_“I think it’s a bit late for that. They have known about this since I was ten,” Thranduil said._

_Andy made a face, twining her hair around her fingers thoughtfully._

_“Well, if you can’t have their support, at least you have their money, right?”_

_Thranduil chuckled. “Right,” he agreed._

_“And you’ve got me.”_

_He smiled when she said this. He might have kissed her, in fact, for such a gesture ought to be answered with affection, but he was too polite and shy to do something so bold. Besides, Andy saw him only as a friend, and that was enough._

_-_

_“Fuck, I’m too pregnant for this.”_

_“This was your idea,” Thranduil muttered into Andaeriel’s ear, peering easily over the heads of people milling about them while simultaneously protecting his eight-month pregnant wife from being accidentally pummelled._

_“Ah, please be careful with your cane! I’m going to trip over.”_

_“I’m sorry!”_

_Andy huffed and shuffled along through the dirt, staring down at a map of the exposition as she attempted to lead the way to the dog tents. Thranduil shepherded her through the crowd, afraid she might knock into something. He couldn’t help being wary, despite Andy’s insistence that she could take very good care of herself. In Thranduil’s mind, she was carrying quite possibly the most precious treasure in the entire world and he wasn’t about to let her go wandering about with it unchaperoned._

_“Can we not buy a dog from a breeder?” he asked for the fifth time that morning, feeling decidedly uncomfortable among all these people. He wanted to go home. It was too early and his knee was hurting._

_“Shush, I’m not buying a silly, overpriced show dog. I want to save a life today,” Andy said determinedly._

_Thranduil was about to argue that going home and back to bed was likely to save his own, drastically more important life when Andy gasped excitedly, cutting him off._

_“Goats! Oh, Thranduil, aren’t they sweet?”_

_He narrowly avoided colliding into her as she stopped to bend down before a goat enclosure. Baby goats bleated hungrily at them, demanding attention. Andy stuck her hand through the fence and stroked the ear of a black, brown and white one._

_“I’ve always wanted a goat,” she said. “Can we get one?”_

_“I thought you wanted a dog,” Thranduil said, exasperated._

_“But goats are so precious. And you don’t have to walk them.”_

_“We’re not getting a goat.”_

_Andy stood up with great difficultly, putting her hands around her swollen belly. She gave Thranduil a stern look that made him feel small despite his towering height over her._

_“I’d like a goat,” she said. “We have so much room for animals, Thranduil, why not get a goat?”_

_“My house is not a farm, Andaeriel!”_

_“Using my full name has no effect on me, you know that. Please, please, pleeeease?”_

_He had never refused her before._

_The persistent bleating of Archimedes was soon accompanied by the crying and laughing and gurgling of a baby boy and Thranduil considered love differently. He felt it in his wife, heart-stopping and wonderful, like a hurricane or a comet. He felt in his son, temperate and lovely like the first breath of spring. He thought he could not love any more than he already did; so full and strong and pure it was, his love for Andy. But having a family with her made his heart soft and the winters warm._

_And then it was gone._

_The stairs creaked under the weight of his body on crutches. Finding himself unable to walk, Thranduil pulled them out from out from under the bed and took each step slowly, afraid to slip on the timber. He heard gentle murmurs in the kitchen; a young man on the cusp of adulthood and a golden-haired toddler, only a year old. Haldir was coaxing Legolas into eating his breakfast, but to no avail. When Thranduil approached, he said nothing about the crutches._

_“I will do it,” Thranduil said, taking the food from his friend._

_He sat down in front of Legolas and managed to pull a few comical expressions that convinced his son to eat. It cheered them both up even for just the morning. Legolas was reluctant, aware that something was amiss. His ada always fed him breakfast, but where was nana? He could not hear her lyrical laughter nor see her adoring smile as she danced around the kitchen, making breakfast and singing songs. Thranduil tried not to notice how quiet Haldir was in comparison, wishing there was conversation to dull the pain, but having nothing to say._

_Thranduil knew that flesh would mend and memories would fade, but some aches buried themselves too deep in his bones. No amount of time seemed long enough to bring him back from such sorrow. He struggled to walk places where his wife had once been, struggled to sleep in the bed she had slept in. It got easier as slow months fell into slow years, but it never went away._

_He did not believe second chances ever pulled through to his expectations, but Thranduil fell for Bard so quickly he barely had time to consider what those expectations even were. All he knew was that it was something whole and happy enough to help him take wary steps in places he feared to tread, even if it meant more grief._

_What shocked him most of all was that he had not yet found it in himself to give up on hoping that this too would pass._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you all liked my interpretation of Thranduil's wife. I personally really fell in love with her; I think she's brilliant. I wanted to include her some more, but it would have been too long-winded.  
> ANYWAY  
> I have nothing else to say except THANK YOU SO MUCH TO EVERYONE. Like, everyone who has kept this fic afloat with kind comments and questions and just general interests. At this point, each chapter is such a milestone for me compared to how this fic started out (2 chapters a week or something ridiculous like that) and I honestly can't believe so many people have stayed interested and supportive and just all around wonderful. So thank you thank you! I love you all!


	19. Quiet

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Trigger Warnings: Hospital scene throughout. ******

Voices tap against the walls. They sound distant, like the remnants of echoes. There is beeping. _Beep, beep, beep._ Faster, faster, and then slow again. There is white all around at intervals before the darkness returns, filtering his vision like tunnel lights. His eyes try to adjust, but he shuts them again and sleeps.

   He dreams. There are people. _Clap, clap, clap._ A yellow light in his eyes. No, that isn’t a dream.

   _Let me sleep, let me sleep._

   His consciousness wavers. As he falls in and out of wakefulness, memories come. New ones chase old ones, or is it old ones chasing new ones? He cannot decipher one from another; finding rice in the pockets of a tuxedo; rain against the car window; a waterfall of stars against his chest. No, hair – it is hair. He reaches out to touch it, to feel its silkiness, but his arms are too heavy, and the memory fades.

   He sleeps again.

   When he wakes for a third time, there is no blackness to contrast the burning white. He blinks – once, twice, three times – his eyes are soft in his skull, like they have been replaced with cotton wool.

_Where am I?_

   Machines. Lights. Thin mattress. _Beep, beep, beep._ _Fuck, make it stop._

   He groans, trying once more to lift his arms, but finding them still too heavy. Not just heavy, though, but immobile. Why can’t he move? He goes to shift a finger, but cannot.

   A person enters. He tries to speak, but no words come out. She runs out of the room.

   “He’s awake!”

   Noise. So much noise. Why can’t things be quieter? Shush, please.

   _Let me sleep._

   “What’s your name?”

   He doesn’t respond, but he thinks he knows the answer. Yes, his name is Bard. What an unfortunate name; what had his mother been thinking?

   The blurred images of faces stare down at him. Why are there so many people? Oh, he’s in hospital.

   Why?

   He cannot remember.

   He tries to speak again. He hears a voice, but it doesn’t sound like his own. Where is it coming from?

   “Can you remember what happened?”

   His thoughts feel disconnected. He tries to remember, but cannot hold a thought or memory for long enough. He hears the waning sound of a car radio, and then nothing more.

-

   Bard is sitting up in the bed. The doctor is testing his fine motor skills.

   “Okay, wiggle your fingers,” she says.

   His fingers curl, but he cannot seem to make them do much more. He looks down at them sadly.

   “It’s okay,” she assures kindly. “Your body still has to adjust from being inactive for so long. It will take some time before you are able to walk or even eat by yourself.”

   He gazes at her, still processing the words. He wants to thank her, but he still cannot fully speak.

   -

   He sleeps long hours and is tired when he is awake.

   He says a few words the next day like ‘please’ and ‘thank you’ and ‘hello,’ and the name of his doctor, but still he only curls his fingers when asked to wiggle them. He is told it is good progress and is given exercises to help his muscles and brain signals, but they only make him more tired.

   He is asked many questions, but he fails to answer them. Sometimes it is simply because he cannot say the words he needs to, but mostly it is because he does not remember.

   His memories are there, but he cannot grasp them. He has dreams about them. He wakes sometimes to the smell of pine needles, the taste of expensive wine in the back of his throat, the hum of a tattoo gun. He recalls people as well, but he can’t name them. Three children he thinks are his own, and a wife that died, which is sad.

   The exercises help. His brain learns quickly. Another day and Bard is wiggling his fingers and toes and a few days after that he begins to walk and is allowed to shave, hobbling to the bathroom one step at a time. It is good to walk again; to feel the ground and be mobile. Though it is strange to learn everything all over again.

   He eats solid foods, too, but not much. He is very thin and a few mouthfuls have him very full, though it also means he is hungry more often. The doctors say it is because he has been on a feeding tube for so long. How long? Nearly two months, they say.

   _Why?_

   A car accident.

   Bard doesn’t remember.

   There are flowers on his bedside table. He wonders who put them there, because it wasn’t any of the doctors. He asks.

   “The man you are living with.”

   _I live with someone?_

   -

   He watches lots of television because it helps with his recollections. He hears songs and chants and names and makes fleeting connections that trigger other memories, even small ones. He flicks through the channels lazily, trying to find something that will catch his interest. He likes the talk shows; the people are so nice, giving gifts to strangers in need. And there is no plot to follow; he just concentrates on making connections.

   “You have visitors,” the doctor tells him one day. It has been nearly a week since he regained consciousness. She takes the remote control to switch off the television. “You might not remember them straight away, but hopefully they’ll help.”

   “Okay,” Bard says, averting his gaze to the door.

   He hears whispers from behind it.

_“No, Tilda, you can’t jump on him. He might not even know who you are.”_

_“Why does he have amnesia?”_

_“It’s not amnesia; he’s just confused from being unconscious for so long.”_

   The doctor opens the door and five people enter the ward. Bard watches them curiously as they come in, staring at him like he is an alien. There are four children; he recognizes them vaguely, their names hovering in the air. In front of them is a man in a wheelchair. He is very beautiful.

   “Da!”

   Bard is tackled by three of the children. Taken aback, he does not move at first, but then he is engulfed in the familiar scent of shampoo that Sigrid uses. Sigrid… his daughter. She is so kind and gentle. And Bain and Tilda and Legolas and… Thranduil.

   Thranduil is… his boyfriend? No, that cannot be right. How can that be so? A memory comes – a staircase, the excited chatter of a crowd – it goes.

   Tilda showers her father in kisses. Bard cannot remember her favourite colour, but he remembers the day she was born. She had been so small and now she is… he cannot recall her age, but she is gorgeous.

   Bain stands tall and proud, but tears prickle his eyes. Bard smiles at him for reassurance and it is returned.

   “Please be wary about what you say,” the doctor says behind them. “Your dad has been through a lot.”

   Bard looks to his children, smiling apologetically. 

   “I’m sorry,” he says with some difficulty, still unsure of the taste that words have in his mouth.

   “How are you feeling, da?” Sigrid asks.

   Bard shrugs. He doesn’t really know. He is just very confused all the time and would like not to be.

   “We’ve missed you!” Tilda exclaims, climbing onto the bed and into her father’s lap.

   Bard’s heart sinks at this. He has been comatose for seven weeks, the doctors said. How much has he missed?

   He sees Thranduil wheel forward. Bain and Sigrid move to the other side of the bed to allow him room. He smiles guardedly up at Bard.

   “Do you remember me?” he whispers. His voice is familiar and Bard realizes he has not forgotten it. He would know it before anyone else’s; before even his own.

   “Yeah,” he exhales, genuinely stunned.

   “What do you remember?”

   “Not much,” he admits uselessly, feeling bad. He fights through the next part. Neither in life nor death might have he believed to hold such joy in a single person. “Are – are we – da – dating?”

   Thranduil’s face breaks into a striking smile, tears spilling down his cheeks in relief. He nods behind a hand, unable to speak. Bard knows the feeling. He wonders what is has been like during his absence.

   Thranduil and the children stay for a very long time. Legolas gives Bards drawings and a book to read; _Romeo and Juliet_. Bard remembers reading it with him, and in turn he remembers sunlight filtering through the windows of a sun room, and he remembers the laughter of children, and the bumping of his knee against another’s under a table.

   Thranduil does not say much, letting the children tell stories and be glad for their father’s return. He lays his head on the hospital bed and his hand rests near Bard’s, fingers eager but wary. Bard almost wants to take it, to feel its temperature and know its creases, but he is hesitant should he cross a line.

   But words do not need to be spoken, nor touches exchanged. Bard remembers the way Thranduil’s hair fell through his hands like silk and the how the smell of books lingered in his home. He remembers the gripping fear he felt when Thranduil had been in hospital, and he remembers the tenderness of his kisses, so candid that Bard feels his lip tingle at the thought.

   But it is only wavers of memory; he does not know when or where or how or why. He recalls feelings and moments, but there is no time and no concept to build or bind them.

-

   Thranduil returns very early the next day by himself. He sits by the bed in his wheelchair and talks quietly. He seems sad and eager to touch Bard, but is timid. Bard is unsure of how to react to certain gestures and words; so familiar, yet he does not know why. He understands that they have some kind of relationship, but he feels no foundation for it. Where did it come from?

   Thranduil tells him about the things he has missed while unconscious. Seven weeks is so much to catch up on and Bard feels daunted by it all. Here and there, he has questions about things he does not immediately remember. He asks who Haldir is only to be met with a memory of a sarcastic man with blond hair. He inquires after Thranduil’s disability only to recall being told after… after… _oh._

   It is not a long talk, however. Remembering so much wearies Bard and a nurse requests Thranduil leave and perhaps say less the next time he visits.

   Bard sleeps, his dreams troubled and broken; flickers of memory wandering the void like thousands of tiny stars, so far away yet he believes he can reach out and hold them.

   He wakes up at midday. Thranduil is still there and is soon accompanied by Sigrid and Tilda and Legolas and Bain. Sigrid brings flowers to replace the ones that have died in the vase.

-

   Days pass with steadiness. Bard is almost constantly lethargic now that he has visitors all the time, but it is a good sort of tired. His children visit every day and he wonders if Thranduil even leaves. With their company, he picks up things more quickly; memories, movements, behaviours. It is all coming back to him. He does his exercises to assist mobility and puzzles to help with cognition and he talks as often as he can despite the effort it takes, though he finds he doesn’t have all that much to say. What has he to speak of?

   He listens instead. His children have many stories and he does his best to keep up, trying not to be sad to have missed so much. After nearly two weeks, he is gradually putting together pieces of his life. He still does not recall the accident he was supposedly in, but he knows that Bain has a boyfriend and that it will be Tilda’s birthday soon. He remembers his phone number, but not his street address. He knows he is a teacher, but cannot pinpoint specific lessons.

   And he is furious when he learns his kids have not been at school.

   “Why didn’t you m-make them go?!” he exclaims to Thranduil, who is so startled to be yelled at that his chair rolls back a few inches.

   “I-I-,” he stammers, eyes wide.

   “You’ve put th-their education at – at stake!”

   Thranduil looks distraught, his eyes sparkling with tears. Bain puts a firm hand on his father’s shoulder to stop him.

   “Don’t worry, da,” he says, his eyes dancing to Thranduil anxiously. “Galion and Tauriel have been helping us. We’re up to date with school work; we just haven’t been attending.”

   Bard relaxes at this, but glares at Thranduil. Not for long, however. His anger dissipates and he is tired, ashamed to have shouted. He isn’t sure how to control his emotions; they get away from him so easily he cannot catch them in time to avoid causing distress.

   Thranduil looks deeply hurt; his face pale and gaunt. Before Bard can apologize, he excuses himself and leaves the room. Bard watches him go, his heart constricting painfully.

   “You shouldn’t be so hard on him,” Bain advises. “It’s been really rough without you.”

   Bard says nothing, but feels worse. He did not mean to make Thranduil upset.

   _Damn this._

   He gets out of bed, electing to make an adult decision for once. He will look silly wandering out into the hospital in his pyjamas, but he is determined to apologize.

   He searches for Thranduil slowly, shuffling on his ill-used feet. Considering how much the man stands out, he is difficult to locate. Bard finds him in an empty ward, his head in his hands and his shoulders shaking gently.

   Bard approaches cautiously, reminding himself to be respectful and calm. He makes his presence known by closing the door and, before Thranduil can turn away, he bends down in front of him.

   “I’m sorry,” he whispers, pushing passed the lump in his throat. It is bad enough he cannot speak properly without struggling to find the right words. “I’m not good at – um – um – feelings. I’m sorry.”

   Thranduil hastily wipes at his eyes. His fingers are so nimble and soft-looking Bard has an urge to take them in his hands and press them to his lips. What triggers such a thought he does not know, but it overcomes him with memories; Thranduil’s fingers at the tips of his ears and among the tresses of his hair and at the clasp of his belt. There are so many memories in Thranduil’s hands that Bard cannot keep up with them. They are blinding.

   He reaches out for a moment, curious to touch, but pulls his arm back just in time for Thranduil to lift his head, his eyes glistening.

   “Don’t apologize,” he whispers. “You are going through a lot. I understand.”

   “But that doesn’t mean I am allowed to ignore how – how much you have al-already been through. It-it must have been so diff-diff-diff.” Bard exhales irritably, unable to get the rest of the words out. It frustrates him how much his speech has been affected. “I’m sorry.”

   Thranduil swallows thickly, fighting back the urge to weep. Bard hangs his head, wishing he could offer comfort. He feels terrible. He knows it is not his fault that he has been in a coma, but he cannot imagine how Thranduil must feel, unable to go back to how things were because Bard is stuck among memories he cannot piece together.

   “It has been difficult,” Thranduil says, causing Bard to look up. “When I got the call that you had woken up, I was so shocked I could not speak – I could not even move. I thought I was finally going to have you back, but you’re not even here. And I’m not here, with you. _We’re_ not anywhere.”

   Thranduil cries again, covering his mouth with trembling hands.

   “They told me it was going to take you a while to remember everything but I thought – I thought you’d at least remember me, if you saw me. But you look at me and it feels like I’m a ghost. I’m haunting a person that isn’t even you anymore.”

   Bard chews his lip, feeling a weight on his chest. He doesn’t know what to say. What can he say? He has nothing that might ease such a burden.

   “I’m sorry,” Thranduil mutters, rubbing his eyes. “It is not fair on you to bear my unhappiness.”

   “No, please.”

   Before he can stop himself, Bard reaches up and cups Thranduil’s cheek. Thranduil’s face becomes hard, frozen with shock, but Bard cannot bring himself to pull away. “I – I want to bear your unhappiness. I – I am v-very grateful that – that you have stayed with m-me all this t-time.”

   Thranduil face rises into a small, aching smile beneath Bard’s palm. His skin is supple and Bard realizes his hands must be harsh against it. Ashamed, he draws it away.

   But Thranduil takes it, grasping two fingers in his haste to hold Bard’s hand. He pauses for a second before lifting it back to his cheek, closing his eyes against the temperateness of Bard’s skin. Bard remembers doing exactly this, though it feels like so many lifetimes ago; running his fingers against Thranduil’s neck and through his hair… and something else; sharp yet gentle, broken yet whole.

   He isn’t sure if it’s a good idea or bad idea, but Bard does it anyway. His hands wander and they know the threads of Thranduil’s hair, so soft it could be made of silk, just as Bard remembers it.

   Whatever else comes with that memory is hazy, but he is intrigued by it.

   “May – may I kiss you?”

   Thranduil’s breathing hitches and for a moment he does not reply. Bard waits patiently, hanging onto every movement of Thranduil’s hand against his wrist. When Thranduil nods it is barely an incline before Bard is already kissing him, a hundred thousand words he cannot say falling into a single moment.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yay he's awake!  
> And no, that kiss wasn't one of those gross "I kissed him and remembered everything," tropes. I'm just a sap and Bard wanted to try something. He's basically a curious bunny at the moment.  
> As usual, thank you for all your comments and kudos. I appreciate them more than I can say. If you have any questions, feel free to ask me [here](http://queerteddy.tumblr.com/ask).  
> And of course thank you to [Sammy](http://thranduilscars.tumblr.com/) for beta-ing! ily.  
> Thank you for reading!


	20. Recovery

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yay new chapter!  
>  **Trigger Warnings: None! Hospital scene at the beginning, but we're finally saying goodbye to it! Hooray! ******

“You’re recovering exceptionally. Your body is functioning quite well for someone who is post-coma.”

   The doctor is examining scans on the computer. Bard sits in the chair beside her, swinging his legs to get some circulation in them because sitting down for such a length of time is causing them to be numb.

   “What does that mean?” he asks hopefully. His speech is still slurred and he mumbles, but he no longer stammers, which is useful.

   “Well, we can’t keep you here any longer, I’m afraid. You’ll have to go to a rehabilitation centre until you’re walking, talking and thinking to your fullest capability,” she says, looking down at his swinging legs pointedly, for she knows he isn’t doing it for his own enjoyment.

   Bard stiffens them, his facing falling.

   “How long will I be there for?” he says, trying not to sound ungrateful.

   “A couple more weeks, I think, judging by your current progress.”

   She hesitates, regarding him for a moment before exhaling and putting her clipboard aside. Bard chews his lip anxiously, not ready for more bad news.

   “To be honest with you, Bard, you’re free to go home if you want. Rehabilitation is only if a patient is unable to handle daily recovery or if they have no family or friends to help them. If you don’t see any benefit in going, I can have you discharged by tomorrow morning.”

   Bard opens his mouth and then closes it again, stunned.

   “Seriously?”

   The doctor smiles widely, nodding. “Shall I put the papers through?”

   “Yes! Please.”

   “I'll call someone to come pick you up tomorrow morning.”

   “Can I make the call?” Bard inquires sheepishly, glancing at the phone.

   “Sure.” The doctor pushes it towards him, standing up. “Press line one and dial. I’ll come by your room when I have the papers ready.”

   Bard thanks her and picks up the phone as she leaves. He dials a number and presses the receiver to his ear, his heart pulsating erratically. It rings, once, twice, three times, four times, and then it is answered.

   “Hello?” Thranduil’s voice greets him.

   “Hey.”

   There is a thud on Thranduil’s side before he speaks, his tone concerned.

   “Bard? Is everything okay?”

   “Yeah.”

   “Alright.” There is a pause, the connection clicking through the silence. “How did you get my number?”

   Bard hesitates, staring at the buttons on the phone. He doesn’t remember what numbers he actually punched in.

   “I don’t know,” he confesses. “I just dialled.”

   Thranduil breaks into laugher. “You don’t remember your own birthday, but you can remember my phone number?”

   Bard allows himself a grin, chuckling.

   “I can come home tomorrow,” he says.

   He hears Thranduil inhale sharply.

   “Are you serious?” he whispers.

   “Yeah.”

_Why can’t I hold an actual conversation?_

   “Bard! That’s wonderful news! I’ll have Galion come pick you up! What time?”

   “Uh – oh – um,” Bard stammers, slightly taken-aback by Thranduil’s enthusiasm. “Around ten?”

   “Brilliant. Okay, I must go – I will call you later,” Thranduil concludes quickly.

   He hangs up before Bard has a chance to say goodbye.

-

   He waits in a wheelchair in the foyer near the emergency room, nothing but a small duffel bag with his few possessions in his lap. It will be strange to leave the hospital. Despite how much he has remembered, it feels as though it is all he knows. The yellow walls and the blue curtains and the teenage girl with scoliosis in the next room. He is leaving it all behind in search of something he doesn’t even know how to look for. Finding memories in himself is one thing, but coming back to an old life where they are alive and vibrant is quite another, and Bard is admittedly terrified of the very sudden reality of going home.

   Galion arrives to pick him up, his familiar face wrinkled into a warm smile. He pushes Bard to the car, much to Bard's displeasure. It is apparently hospital policy to be discharged in a wheelchair. He abandons it as soon as they are out of sight of the doctors, stretching out his legs - like Thranduil does.

   It is warm outside; summer is here. The last Bard remembers of the outside world is sheeting rain and blistering cold. Never mind what he has viewed through the windows and felt on his ward balcony, with two feet on the ground beyond the hospital walls it all seems like a fabrication.

   He follows Galion to the car, still shuffling his feet a bit and telling himself to pick them up even if it slows him down. Seeing the black Jaguar reminds Bard of his own can of rust on four wheels. He wonders what happened to it after the crash, his heart sinking at the thought of being scrap metal now.

   The drive home is short. Bard rolls down the window and watches the buildings tumble by, remembering shops he visited and streets he travelled. He even sees a lady walking a Pomeranian and realizes she’s his next door neighbour.

   It is like stepping into a camera, watching his life play out before him in reels of film, afraid to touch it should he damage the illusion.

   Seeing his house is no better. It is just as he remembers it; wild ivy and chipped pavement, yet different in insignificant ways like the lack of shoes at the front door and the lawn mown. Bard is hesitant to enter, fearing he might wake up from a dream he is having.

   “The others are inside, still cleaning up,” Galion says, taking a few steps ahead of Bard.

   Bard does not speak, staring up at his home in awe. Four walls and a roof and countless memories inside and all it does is frighten him.

   The front door opens before he can even consider whether or not he will go in. Three figures blur ahead, barrelling towards him. Bard’s heart swells at the sight of his kids, cheeks flushed and fingers dirty with dust and grime. He takes in them into his arms, squeezing back just as tightly as he is being squeezed.

   “Welcome home, da!”

   Over Bain’s shoulder Bard sees Thranduil standing in the doorway, wheelchair nowhere in sight. He is wearing rolled-up jeans and a white t-shirt, his long hair knotted into a bun on top of his head.  He holds a hammer, waving it at Bard and smiling. It is strange to see him on two feet and dressed so casually. Bard decides that he likes it.

   Dragged inside by his shirt, Bard is able to see what has unfolded in his home over what he believes is only one day. Everything is meticulously clean to a point where it’s obvious no one has lived here for months. He notices the crooked shelves in the kitchen are straight, which explains the hammer in Thranduil’s hand. Bard recalls always leaving notes to himself to fix them, but never getting around to it.

   The kitchen table is adorned with a new cloth and there are mugs of half-drunk lemonade sitting on the counter and a cane leans against a chair. The morning sun streams through the open windows, airing out the musty smell of stillness and abandon.

   “You spent all of yesterday cleaning?” Bard realizes, turning to Thranduil.

   “Well I could not have you come home to dust bunnies and spiders,” Thranduil quips, smirking. “Would you like a drink?”

   “You’re offering me a drink in my own house?” Bard counters cockily, raising an eyebrow.

   Thranduil shrugs and sets the hammer on the counter, taking a glass down from the top cupboard to the left of the sink. It amazes Bard that Thranduil already knows where everything is, certain he has never been invited here before.

   Bard accepts the glass and proceeds to look around while Bain and Sigrid scrub the window-sills of dust and dirt.

   It feels eerie, like he is exploring the house of a family that left everything behind. He inspects photographs on the mantel of the fireplace, recognizing his late wife with a pang of sadness. There are pictures of Tilda's first day of school and Bain’s first skateboard and Sigrid’s first sweater that she knitted. So many firsts and lasts and in-between’s and Bard can only remember a handful of it all.

   He goes to his bedroom, finding his way only by habit. Inside it is bright and airy, the windows open and the bed sheets stripped, ready for clean ones. He sets his drink aside and sits, bouncing on the mattress as if to know it again. So long has it spent being slept in by only one person, and now it has not been slept in at all. Bard wonders if it will be kind to him when it returns to it.

   There is a knock at the door.

   Thranduil leans against the frame, his fist curled at the wood humbly. He looks down at Bard sympathetically and enters, sitting down on the bed as well.

   “Are you okay?” he asks quietly.

   Bard shrugs. “It’s weird,” he says.

   Thranduil nods understandingly. He is sitting very close. Bard can feel the heat of his skin against his arm and it could almost be electric in the way it softly prickles. Bard thinks back to the kiss they shared almost a week ago. There was nothing else to follow it; not even in the two of Thranduil’s visits afterwards. Bard wonders what he thinks about their unconventional situation. What will become of them, now that the worst is over?

   “Will you stay for dinner?” Bard inquires instead, easing the rising tension.

   “If you wish me to,” Thranduil responds with a smile. He gets to his feet then. “Come. I have something to show you.”

   Intrigued, Bard is shown to the lounge room where Legolas is watching a cartoon with Tilda. Thranduil makes himself comfortable on the floor and instructs Bard to sit on the armchair in front of him. He pulls a cardboard box into view and Bard sits, looking inside.

   “I thought it may help with your remembering,” is all Thranduil supplies. Bard notices that his cheeks are slightly pink. 

   There are many photographs compiled neatly in an envelope, ticket stubs crumpled and torn, various receipts for restaurants and cafes, and innumerable trinkets and objects that Bard understands hold some kind of meaning or fondness. He explores it all with interest, finding memories in some, but only feelings in others.

   Thranduil does not say anything, but Bard can see he has endless stories to tell. His eyes are never quiet, studying Bard’s movements as he flicks through the photographs, finding crumbs of memory in them.

   “All of this is from our time together?” he says, setting the photos aside. 

   Thranduil nods. “I saved it all. I – I cannot confess why. Most of it was unintentionally kept. I found these tickets in the pocket of my coat – you remember, from the book-signing you attended with me? – and this photo was in my wallet – a woman with a polaroid camera photographed us in the street by accident while trying to take a photo of Big Ben – and this is your watch that was left under my bed.” Thranduil presents the tickets and the photo and the watch.

   “And this jumper?” Bard muses, pulling out a brown-and-orange jumper, feigning forgetfulness though he clearly remembers purposefully leaving it for Thranduil to have. 

   Thranduil full blushes, reaching out to touch the fabric.

   “You left it behind at the hotel in London,” he relays. “You – you never asked for it back.”

   “It smells like you,” Bard says coyly, supressing a grin.

   Thranduil snatches it from his hands, setting it on the floor hastily, looking embarrassed. He pulls out an empty bottle of wine to change the subject.

   “This is from Legolas’ party, when we – we –” He falters, turning impossibly more red.

   Bard purses his lips to stop from laughing. Of all the things he expected to struggle through while trying to retain his memories, a timid and pink-faced Thranduil had not been on the list. He finds it incredibly endearing, and possibly even cute, but would not be so bold as to say this out loud.

   “Okay, what about this?” He takes out a book. It has no front cover.

   “John Keats,” says Thranduil.

   _Poorly received in his time, don’t you think?_

   Bard shakes his head, the memory of his classroom and Thranduil’s eyes on his lips overwhelming him. He puts the book back.

   “I’ll have to take my time with all this,” he confesses sadly. “It’s very tiring to try and remember so much at once.”

   “I’m sorry,” Thranduil recovers. He puts everything back in the box and sets it aside. “Do you know how long it will take?”

   “There’s no telling. The doctor said it might be years still before I remember absolutely everything.”

   Bard drops his head into his hands, rubbing his eyes until he sees stars. He has done his best not to dwell on it, but he is weighed down with the amount that he has forgotten. Sometimes he believes it might have been easier to have complete amnesia than to have all his memories slowly trickling back to him. It burdens and wearies him. Most nights he sleeps in the hope that he will wake up and recall everything at once and every morning he wakes to no such mercy.

   Bard feels Thranduil’s hand on his knee and looks up from his hands, gazing down at easily the most beautiful face he has ever had the good fortune to smile upon.

   “The important thing is that you take your time,” Thranduil says, his expression hopeful, for Bard’s sake perhaps. “I’ll be waiting for you.”

   Bard goes to reply, but a ringing sound cuts him off. Thranduil starts and pats his jeans, retrieving his mobile phone from the depths of his pocket. He grimaces when he reads the caller ID.

   “I ought to take this,” he says. He stands up and answers it, retreating from the noise of the television. “Tauriel? What is it?” He pauses, listening to her reply. “Is this a joke?” He sighs. “I’ll be there soon.”

   He hangs up and returns to Bard, who is trying his best not to be downhearted that Thranduil is leaving.

   “Oakenshield is starting a brawl in my office,” Thranduil says, looking exhausted now. “I’m afraid I have to go.”

   Bard nods solemnly. He wonders why anyone would wish to start a fight with Thranduil, or his employees. It doesn’t seem right or fair, but he does not seek to ask. He is tired enough from the box of things Thranduil brought, his head an unsteady influx of disconnected memories.

   “Legolas, we are going.”

   A pitiful wail escapes the small boy on Bard’s couch, startling Tilda.

   “Why?!”

   “I am needed at work,” Thranduil says impatiently.

   “He can stay here if he wants to,” Bard says slowly, unsure if it will be wrong of him to offer. “I’m sure he will be much happier here than at home with only Galion for company.”

   Thranduil’s eyes shift for a moment with uncertainty, but then he smiles.

   “Are you sure?”

   Bard nods.

   “Thank you. I will have him picked up later.”

   Thranduil goes to the couch and leans over the back, blowing a noisy raspberry on Legolas’ cheek, making the child squeal. He tugs his father’s hair affectionately and Thranduil kisses the top of his head.

   “Be good.”

   He takes his cane and Bard walks him to the door just as Galion is reversing out of the driveway to go back home. They watch as he halts the car, a disgruntled look on his face.

   “That’s lucky,” Bard comments uselessly.

   Thranduil’s mouth lifts for a moment as he turns to Bard.

   “I’m sorry I cannot stay,” he says uneasily. “Perhaps we will have dinner some other time.”

   “Like – like a date?” Bard manages, brave enough even to smirk.

   Thranduil stiffens and does not say anything. Their eyes meet and for once Bard cannot read them.

   “I will call you later,” Thranduil mutters.

   He departs for the car in the street, leaving behind the scent of his cologne and Bard’s stomach feeling like it has been punched.

-

   Bard spends the remainder of his day cleaning to keep his hands busy and his mind on things other than Thranduil. He cannot seem to understand the position they have been placed in. It is as though enough is missing from their relationship to make it invalid, which is extremely depressing. It makes sense to Bard that Thranduil may want to take it easy after all he has been through, but how slowly and carefully must they tread before they are no longer walking the same path?

   Bard decides to ask his Bain and Sigrid after dinner. He puts the kettle on for tea while Tilda and Legolas return to their card game.

   “What’s it like having me back?” he asks quietly.

   Bain and Sigrid exchange startled expressions.

   “It’s weird,” Bain admits.

   “Not in a bad way!” Sigrid recovers. “But it’s just – you know – strange to see you walking and talking again and coming back to us, only you're not the same as when you left.”

   “Not that we blame you!”

   “No, of course not! It’s just going to take some getting used to, especially with how much you’ve forgotten.”

   “And being back in this house is kind of spooky,” says Bain. “Things have been really different lately.”

   “Different how?” Bard persists, sitting down at the dining table with his tea. The two teenagers join him.

   Sigrid shrugs. “It was quieter. We were constantly tip-toeing around a subject we didn’t want to discuss. It was just really hard.”

   “Yeah,” Bain nods. “You haven’t heard the worst of it, and I don’t think you want to.”

   “You mean Thranduil?”

   Bard’s kids swap another look. How taken they are to each other now, he sees, when before they were almost rivals. Bard wishes he could consider it a good thing, but it has emerged from a deeply sorrowful experience.

   “You really did a number on him, da,” says Bain. “It was like watching a lost puppy go ‘round in circles for two months.”

   He and Sigrid tell Bard what had happened during his absence. Thranduil in bed with a fever, falling down the stairs, Tauriel locking him out of his own cellar, sleeping away entire days, not showing up to work and being found among the blankets of his bed, unable to face the day. He was wheelchair bound for a month, Sigrid says, when he finally convinced himself to see a doctor about the fall.

   “That’s when things started getting better,” she adds, chewing her lip. “We caught that Oakenshield guy with drugs, but that only made Thranduil return to work. He was still… sad. It was almost like he was grieving.”

   “Grieving?” Bard repeats, bewildered.

   “We had no idea if you’d make it through,” Bain says quietly, cupping his hands around his mug. “Things fell apart pretty quickly.”

   Sigrid nods forlornly. “You shouldn’t blame Thranduil for being distant, if that’s what you’re worried about. I’m no expert, but I imagine you’re both struggling with the same thing... in different instances.”

   Bard ponders this for a moment. It is true; he isn’t sure of his feelings for Thranduil. Something is there, surely, but he cannot piece it together in the mess of his own thoughts and memories, constantly losing it in the scuffling of his mind. And this, in turn, probably frustrates Thranduil. Bard admits he is not the same man he was before the accident. He himself does not yet feel whole, and so imagines he behaves similarly. What anguish that must place on Thranduil.

   “I’m sure everything will be okay again soon enough,” Bain assures, stretching back in his chair.

   But how long before soon enough becomes too late?

   Galion comes to pick up Legolas soon after dinner. Bard inquires after Thranduil, but Galion only shakes his head.

   “He’s still at work, so who knows what happened. I expect he’ll let you know later tonight,” he says.

   Bard nods his thanks and says goodbye to Legolas, who looks sleepy, but pleased.

   He waits for a message or call for Thranduil, but after sitting through an entire film with his kids, Bard decides to retire early to bed. He does not wish to stay up and wait to find out what happened. He is tired and eager to sleep in a bed that isn’t a hospital cot.

   He draws a bath and sits there until the water becomes cold, prickling his skin. He finds clean pajamas in his wardrobe and then calls Bain to the bathroom.

   “What’s up?”

   “You shave your own hair, don’t you?”

   Bain grins. “Of all the things to remember,” he chuckles

   “Would you be able to do mine?”

   Bain blinks several times, perplexed at such a request.

   “Are you sure?” he prompts, opening the cupboard where the razor is kept.

   Bard nods. “It’s not practical. I don’t know why I let it grow so long.”

   Bain shrugs and does as he is asked, shaving and trimming his father’s hair until it is similar to his own, but with a more even coverage from the nape to the fringe. When Bard wakes in the morning, he finds tiny hairs on his pillow in a bed that is uncomfortable. So many memories in these sheets, he believes, yet still he woke to none of them in his head.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you again to Sammy for beta-ing and offering legendary advice, as usual. And thank you for all your comments and kudos, of course, for they mean the world to me.


	21. France

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter isn't as long as i'd hoped it would be, but it was a bit of an effort to get through, so i think i did okay, all things considered.  
> *throws glitter* i know you guys love angst so here's some more after 2 months of nothing. ily  
> this chapter isn't properly beta-ed. i'll fix it up a bit more later B)

Little can be said of the weeks that followed. After confronting Oakenshield in his office, Thranduil went home with a bruised lip, a heavy limp, and an apology. It is no easy thing to admit a wrong to someone who has committed some himself, but Thorin was desperate to make amends, for his feud with Thranduil had gone on long enough. Glad his nephew’s had jobs, he took a few hits from Thranduil and was shown the door, his limp just as bad.

   After that, reality finds its way back to the corners of everyone’s lives. With Bard out of hospital at last and puttering around his house like a lost dog, Thranduil believes things will return to normal. But Bard’s memory fails to serve him fully. Every day he remembers something new about his life, but his feelings for Thranduil remain the same; inconclusive and puzzling.

   Thranduil keeps true to his promise, however. He calls Bard nearly every day, no matter of the other man’s feelings, for his will always be as they are now; affectionate and quite possibly real and honest love, if he dares to think of it for long enough. Sometimes they speak for hours, sometimes just a few minutes. But there is little to say in spite of their time spent apart, for in that time nothing happened that is worth mentioning. And even now, nothing continues to happen. Bard spends his time trying to remember things and grieving over his sudden unemployment while Thranduil concentrates on getting Legolas back to a school, any school.

   There isn’t much to tell of a life that stands still. It moves slowly and quickly all at once. Hours are sluggish and nights are long, but the end of the week still seems to come too fast.

   This is how Bard and Thranduil’s lives come to a shuttering stop. Not with an easy smile and spring flowers, but with forehead creases and empty beds.

   You could say summer arrives just in time. The warm weather brings with it school holidays and time to consider other things like perhaps a vacation or installing a new fly screen in the kitchen window. Simple things; normal things that don’t involve crying over wasted weeks and months trying to piece together a relationship that seems is destined never again to be.

   But summer rejuvenates Thranduil. The sun is in his bones and his leg is on the mend (again) and he elects to make some decisions. Sitting dormant in the heat in the middle of his life is giving him a near-constant headache.

   Firstly, he gives Legolas an ultimatum; either he agrees to go to a new school at the beginning of the year, or he’ll be sent to boarding school. With no small amount of sobbing, Legolas says he will go to a new school, for which Thranduil is thankful, for he does not think he could bear to send his son away. Not now, not ever.

   Secondly, Thranduil decides to work less; a lot less. Though commissions are piling up and authors are harassing him, he switches off his mobile phone and leaves it to Fili, Kili and Tauriel to handle, for he thinks they are more than capable. After nearly ten years of restoring his father’s and grandfather’s business and turning it into a legacy, Thranduil has had just about enough of it.

   “Tauriel, do you like this job?” he asks her in his office one day.

   She shrugs a shoulder. “Sure. I mean, it’s not what I expected, but it pays my ridiculous rent,” she says honestly.

   Thranduil invites her to sit down. “What would you like to be doing five years from now?”

   Tauriel gives him a quizzical look, though her eyes show a flicker of worry. “Why?”

   “Just answer the question,” Thranduil says gently.

   “I can’t really say,” she admits guardedly. “I’ve always wanted to publish books, but I’ve reached my highest potential in this field.”

   “Why do you say that?”

   “Well, the job above mine is your job, so I can’t have it. And if I quit or get fired, I’ll have to start at the bottom again, so I’d rather stay somewhere near the top where I’m comfortable, if a little bored.”

   “And does that make you happy?”

   Tauriel shifts in her seat, eyeing her boss. She is unsure of how to respond and Thranduil does not blame her. He is being vague. Purposefully vague.

   “You’ve taken on more work than anyone here. You do your job exceptionally while also shouldering half of mine and I haven’t shown enough gratitude for it,” he says.

   Tauriel flaps a hand awkwardly. “Please, don’t. I’ve been more than happy to –”

   “I want to offer you a job opportunity, as thanks for all your hard work,” Thranduil interrupts coolly.

   “Job opportunity? Are you trying to get rid of me?” Tauriel says, taken aback and clearly ready to let Thranduil experience how vengeful her fury can be.

   “On the contrary, I’m getting rid of myself. I want to give you my job.”

   “What?”

   “My job; I would like you to take it, if you wish.”

   Tauriel gapes at him, very visibly stunned. When Thranduil assures her that it isn’t a prank, she bursts in to tears, accepting, but not understanding why. In truth, Thranduil himself doesn’t know why he is leaving, for it is more than just apathy. He is tired. He feels old for someone in his mid-thirties. He can no longer find it in himself to work in a field that does not interest him. Though there is very little that does interest him at all anyway. But, he figures he has time to find something that does.

   Thranduil’s third decision is to start over. Not just with his work, but with his life. He feels stuck, constantly teetering on the edge of one thing or another. He realises he can no longer continue to wait for Bard as he does now.

   Bard has still not confessed any feelings towards him, yet Thranduil is sure there is something there. Perhaps it’s not the same as it once was, but it is something, and that is enough for Thranduil to keep hoping. But he refuses to linger in Bard’s shadow anymore. It isn’t fair or easy on either of them.

   He goes to Bard’s house. Thranduil likes it there; it’s small and humble and full of noise, but the good kind of noise; the kind of noise that makes your fingers warm. He knocks on the door and hears scuffling within. The television is switched off and Bain’s voice can be briefly heard. The door is then opened and Bard stands there looking very flustered.

   “Hi,” he says breathlessly, grinning. It makes Thranduil feel young; like they are teenagers with flirty crushes and wandering eyes, neither one brave enough to act on their feelings.

   They drink coffee by the window in the kitchen. The silence is broken with short words and careful sighs and it feels whole and empty at the same time.

   “I left my job,” Thranduil finally says.

   Bard’s eyebrows furrow. “Why?”

   “I never wanted it in the first place.”

   “That isn’t really cause to quit,” Bard reasons peevishly. Thranduil knows he isn’t impressed due to his own lack of work. It hadn’t been fair on the headmaster to fire him out of the blue just because he had taken an ‘unexpected leave of absence.’ Still, Thranduil is certain of his decision.

   “I still own the firm. I’ll be getting fifteen percent of the profits,” he says.

   “So you’re retiring?”

   “Not exactly. I still wish to make myself useful.”

   Bard folded his arms, confused. “How?”

   “I am not sure yet. Would you like to come to France with me in the meantime?”

   Bard splutters into his coffee.

   “France?” he scowls, wiping his mouth. “What are you going to do in France?”

   “Start over, perhaps. Or find something meaningful. I own a house by the beach.”

   Bard leans back in his chair, smirking. “Of course you do.”

   Thranduil says nothing but looks at Bard, studying him. He is so different now; so cautious. His reluctance had once been easy to sway, but Thranduil sees now that he will not be persuaded. Not that he blames him, of course. So much stress and trauma cannot be undone without difficulty. Still, Thranduil is determined to see this – whatever it is – to its end, for it has not ended.

   “You do not have to come. I only wanted to offer,” he adds. “But I will be leaving next week. I have spent too much time here. It’s time to breathe a different air.”

   “How long will you go for?”

   “I don’t know.”

   “Will you come back at all?” Bard says, so quietly Thranduil almost doesn’t hear it.

   “If you ask it of me.”

 

He is disappointed, but Thranduil understands why Bard does not come with him. Suffocated by his ordeal and warped memories, Bard is likely feeling crowded by Thranduil’s wants and needs and it must be stressful for him. It is time Thranduil backed off, whether temporarily or permanently he does not yet know, but he will accept either result if it means Bard will be happy.

   It is with a heavy heart that Thranduil leaves England, taking Legolas to France, by the sea where the waves sing along the shoreline and hug the rocks and cliffs with a boundless energy. The house in France is small in comparison to the manor back home, but it has long windows so that the sun might stream in and inside it is cool with the breeze fluttering through the curtains and airing out the rooms. It belongs to the Chemin du Rivage in Carry-le-Rouet and has a balcony that looks over the blue waters with a peace and quiet only heaven knows. The laundry dries in the wind during the day and though it is clean still smells of salt from the beach, and at night the stars are smiling and there is always a comfortable place in the bed to sleep. Thranduil has missed it here and Legolas barely remembers their last stay. He explores the house and jumps on the beds and demands the master bedroom. Even though Thranduil refuses, Legolas crawls into his bed in the middle of the night, happy but uncertain of their strange relocation.

   Thranduil knows it is selfish to wish for Bard’s presence, but even with the new air and the cool waters and the smile on his face, it still feels painfully empty. However, he promised to start again. Sometimes the only way to go back is to take a different path entirely.

   The summer beats on, the temperature steadily increasing as the days turn into weeks. Sometime in early July when schools break for summer, Haldir arrives with his younger brothers, bringing noise and laughter into the house. Delighted for company of boys his age, Legolas runs rampant with Rúmil and Orophin at the beach and in the streets, enjoying their holiday in utter totality.  

   Thranduil is glad for Haldir’s company when it comes. They bask in the shade at the beach and talk about nothing and everything at all once, remembering old things and pondering new things and other things in between. Bard is never mentioned, except once.

   “He misses you,” Haldir says, tying up his freshly wet hair as they lounge on the beach in the sun. Near the shore, Legolas, Orophin and Rúmil are digging an unfortunately impressive hole.

   “When did you see him last?” Thranduil inquires.

   “A week ago. He’s job-hunting, but I think he’s too late for any teaching positions. He’ll have to wait until mid-year.”

   Thranduil frowns, not in the least bit envious of Bard. The rest of the year will be hard on him if he doesn’t find a job. Thranduil wishes he could help. He feels useless just sitting on the beach in a different country.

   “It’s a shame you quit, Thranduil, you could have offered him a position with you,” says Haldir.

   “I still can,” Thranduil responds, momentarily enthused. “But Bard likes teaching and he’s good at it.”

   “I suppose so.” Haldir leans back on his towel on the sand, closing his eyes against the burning sunshine. “It’s a shame he didn’t come here.”

   Thranduil remains silent, digging his feet into the sand forlornly. He thinks exactly this every day, but does his best not to dwell.

   “I think it’s good he didn’t,” he says.

   “Oh?”

   “He needs time on his own, I think. I’m making things hard on him by always being around, trying to help him remember but not actually being of any use.”

   “You don’t think the distance will do more harm than good?” Haldir asks anxiously.

   “I cannot say. But, if it does, I won’t stand in the way. I’ve been selfish with him,” Thranduil replies.

    “That’s not like you. The Thranduil I know goes out and takes what he wants, if he wants it,” Haldir jokes, though Thranduil can tell he is still being quite serious.

   “Not this time.”

    Thranduil does not say it aloud, but his only wish is for Bard to be happy, even if it means removing himself from the picture.

 

The summer is quickly lost to sand and brown skin and cafés. The days are long and the evenings spent in an exhaustive sleep after a good dinner at one of the nearby restaurants. Though Thranduil is enjoying himself immensely, he continues to crave Bard’s presence as it seems that’s all he has done for many months and now cannot shake the habit.

   They share a few phone calls in their weeks apart, if only to catch up and know that they are safe and happy. Bard sounds tired, still fighting his memories as they creep away from him at night. He grows more and more discouraged by his lack of work, calling agencies nearly every day for any openings. He nearly got a job teaching the fourth grade in London, but the distance was too far to travel every day and he did not wish to move.

   “I’m almost tempted to come to France with you,” he says. “Anything to take my mind off this crap.”

   “It’s not too late to accept,” Thranduil tells him, trying not to sound overly hopeful or desperate. “We will be here until the end of the holidays, at the very least.”

   “Is it nice?” Bard asks.

   Thranduil pauses, unsure of what to say. To any other person, France in the summer by the beach is nothing short of perfect. But without Bard it’s just like anywhere else.

   “It’s okay.”

   “Sigrid has been giving me grief about it. She said you promised to take her and Bain and Tilda one day,” Bard relays.

   Thranduil doesn’t reply for a moment, considering Bard’s angle. Could he possibly stand to be parted from his children the way he is suggesting? When the line is quiet for too long, Thranduil speaks again.

   “They are welcome here if they want to come.”

   “It wouldn’t be weird for you?” Bard says anxiously.

   “I only worry that you might be lonely without them,” Thranduil confesses.

   “I’ll be fine. I think they need some time away from me again. I don’t need them to look after me the way they do. They deserve a proper holiday.”

   Thranduil isn’t sure if it’s a good idea, but he tells Bard that if his children want to, they are more than welcome to stay with him.

   The next week Haldir picks them up from the train station and the small house in France is crowded and elbows bump elbows at breakfast and there are smiles enough to fill an art gallery. Tilda and Sigrid take the last bedroom and Bain bunks with Legolas again, like they had done once before so many months ago, though it feels like an entire lifetime to Thranduil. Everyone is glad to see each other. It is like they are a family again, but there is still that vital person missing.

   “You sure you aren’t lonely?” Thranduil insists to Bard over the phone.

   “Nah, it’s nice. Some peace and quiet isn’t something I can say I’ve often experienced,” Bard says with a laugh.

   “Well, they’re having a good time, I think,” Thranduil says, glancing over to the sitting room where everyone has congregated on the sofas for a film. “But it would be better if you were here.”

   “I think I would just be an inconvenience,” Bard mumbles. “You have all shared so many memories together and I can’t be a part of that.”

   “They weren’t happy memories, Bard,” Thranduil murmurs.

   “Sorry. I suppose they wouldn’t have been. Still, I’m happy here for now, knowing you guys are happy over there. Make sure Tilda doesn’t get sunburnt, okay? She has sensitive skin but she hates sunscreen.”

   “Okay.”

   There is a pause, only the sound of soft breathing coming from either of them. Thranduil still yearns for Bard’s company, missing him like an absent limb or a lost treasure. There are so many things in the world he wants to share with Bard, but the man is reluctant. Thranduil knows he is simply too afraid to leave his house; too afraid to know the world after what has happened to him. Thranduil doesn’t like that he is alone, dealing with trauma without any help, but he is insistent as ever, and Thranduil will continue to give him time.

   “I miss you,” Bard says. “I don’t know why.”

   Thranduil’s breathing hitches, his heart feeling squeezed in his chest. “I miss you too.”

   “We were good, weren’t we?” Bard adds. “Before all this shit happened.”

   “We’re still good.”

   “You think?”

   “It’s not the same, but I’m glad you’re still around. I’m glad you’re alive,” Thranduil explains awkwardly. He hadn’t the bravery to admit it before, but it’s starting to get easier, somehow.

   “I hope it can be better soon, though. I hope I can get my memories back properly. It’s still really hazy. Every time I think I’ve got a grasp on it all, it slips away again. I’m so frustrated,” says Bard.

   “Take your time,” Thranduil insists gently. “I’ll be waiting for you.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Honestly, I can't believe I actually wrote this chapter at all. I'd just about given up on this fic. But I promised to fix it and finish it and that's what I'm gonna do.


	22. Memory

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THIS IS A SHORT ANGSTY ASS CHAPTER AND I'M SORRY BUT SHIT'S GONNA BE HAPPIER IN THE NEXT ONE  
> 

Bard somehow finds his way back; back to the overgrown garden and the gravel driveway where a manor sits at the end with the curtains drawn. He is impressed by its grandeur, but only for a moment until he remembers how he had once considered it to be home.

    He pays the taxi fare, glad to be free from the constraints of the vehicle. Bard struggles to get himself into a car, whether he is driving or not (though he believes it’s worse when he isn’t driving). He knows it’s due to trauma; hell, he knows it’s probably more serious than that, but it doesn’t feel like he thought it would. He thought getting into a car would give him an anxiety attack, loud and horrible and back-breaking. But it didn’t. The anxiety is there, to be sure, but it is far more quiet and terrifying than it ought to be.

    Bard slings a rucksack over his shoulder and follows the driveway up to the manor, the empty windows staring down at him in the summer morning. It has been a long time, he realises, since he last looked upon Thranduil’s home. While it only feels like a couple of months, he knows it has been longer than that.

    He fumbles with the keys at the door as it takes a few guesses to remember which one opens the house. Once inside, Bard looks around like it is new; like he has never been there before. He has been afraid to come here, to come back to it all. He has avoided the memories that linger in the mugs and spoons and cushions, and in the sheets of the bed upstairs. It’s not that he doesn’t want to remember, but he knows it will be difficult for him.

    Bard leaves his bag on the sofa in the lounge room. He touches the upholstery, finding memories there; a lock of Thranduil’s hair on the back, the stain of Legolas’ blood when he lost a tooth, the lump of a tissue between the cushions where Tilda had stuffed it after blowing her nose. It all comes so quickly it’s enough to make Bard’s head rush, so he turns away and forces himself to think of something else.

    He partially blames his own reluctance towards not being able to recall his memories. Bard is frightened by them and frightened to be overwhelmed, for they are so vibrant and full of life. His memories before meeting Thranduil had come quite easily; within weeks he had suffered the grief of losing his wife and accepted it all over again. He had experienced the cheer of Tilda’s first perfect score in Math and felt the guilt in grounding Bain once and only once. Before Thranduil, things had been softer; they had been simple. Everything that followed was loud and aching and beautiful and Bard is hesitant to remember it all in case it doesn't feel the same. And he desperately wants to feel the same. For Thranduil’s sake, if not his own.

    But Bard has no way out now. As much as he has avoided this place, Galion called him about taking care of Thranduil’s goat, as there is suddenly no one else to do it.

    Bard finds the goat in its pen and lets it out to wander in the grass. Then, he sets about opening the house. He climbs the stairs and pulls open all the curtains on the second floor, letting the summer stream in and bring life to the dust that has begun to settle. When that is done, Bard sits down on the sofa in the lounge room, his back aching from too much movement. It hasn’t been the same since the accident.

    He takes his time with the house. He will be here for a few days, so there is no point in rushing things.

     It feels unwholesomely quiet. Though Bard remembers the squeals of happy children and the television humming in the background, looking around him now he can hardly believe it had once been that way at all, for it is so empty now.        

    He misses his kids. Bard thought some peace and quiet would do him good, but it is doing the opposite. He has quickly learned that there is nothing worse than having only your own thoughts to keep you company.

    He is not left with them for long, however. Sometime near to the evening, Thranduil calls. Bard mutes the television, rousing himself from half-sleep.

    “Hello?”

    “Hello. I hear you are at my house,” Thranduil says, fondness in his tone.

    “I am. I’m babysitting your kid,” Bard jokes, getting up to let Archimedes back into the sun room for the night.

    Thranduil laughs. “Well, one of _your_ kids is very badly sunburnt and her complaining is unparalleled,” he says.

    “Let her mope all she likes. She brought it upon herself,” Bard returns.

    “I have all but smeared her in Aloe Vera; she is very miserable.”

 _“Are you talking about me?”_ comes Tilda’s shrill voice from Thranduil’s end.

   “No!” he cries quickly.

    Bard chuckles.

    They speak quietly and safely, as always. Bard wishes he could be more honest about his feelings, but hearing about Thranduil’s time in France gives him enough joy to look over his own hesitation. Just listening to Thranduil’s voice and the excitement in it when he describes the ice cream parlour and sand so soft you could sleep in it is enough for Bard to fall in love with him again. And he knows it makes Thranduil happy to have Bard to talk to, even if it's about nothing, even if it's about everything.

    Bard is often overcome with the urge to fly to France just to see Thranduil. It is usually short lived, but he is always shocked by the feeling when it comes. He has come close to driving to the airport a couple of times.

    But he must wait; he understands that. There is a distance between them that cannot be closed by crossing the border. It was there long before the border ever was. The physical distance is nothing compared to the ache of being unable to remember the feeling Bard had when they first met, or when they first kissed. He can’t even remember the first time he told Thranduil he loved him.

    _Had_ he ever said it? Bard hopes so.

    He sends himself to bed early that night. There are single beds in the spare rooms. Evidence of his children are still here; Sigrid’s jumper, Tilda’s pencils, Bain’s phone charger. The memories come flooding back; the triumph on Sigrid’s face when she finally finished her knitting, Tilda’s meticulous sharpening when she was drawing, and Bain’s bounding steps to get the charger before his phone died.

    Bard opens the door to Thranduil’s room, unsure if he is brave enough to enter. It is tidy for once – no doubt thanks to Galion. Bard can feel Thranduil’s presence lingering inside. There is a folded wheelchair propped against the wall to the left and a discarded book on the bedside table; little bits of Thranduil left behind for Bard to fret over.

    He goes in, inhaling deeply. It smells dusty, so he opens the window to let the summer night filter in and let the room breathe.

    The bed is soft and it sinks comfortably beneath Bard’s weight as he sits and takes the book from the table. _Frankenstein._ It has been dog-tagged halfway through. The bed sheets feel familiar so Bard gets beneath them and reads from where Thranduil left the story.

    But even after more than an hour, Bard cannot sleep. He lies in the bed, staring up at the ceiling as it reflects the blue-white of the moon outside. His thoughts wander lazily and he cannot focus on one for any length of time. He tries to distract himself, running his fingers through the sheets, looking for memories. Some of Thranduil’s hair is on the pillows and, when Bard puts his hand beneath one, he finds a scrap of paper. He draws it out and tilts it to the moonlight to read.

 

_Flour_

_Rice_

_Peanut Butter_

_Hair-ties_

 

    Bard studies Thranduil’s handwriting. It looks like he had been taught to write elegantly and keep his penmanship perfect, but his unsteady hand means his loops are too long and his r’s barely legible.

    Bard falls asleep at last with the list crumpled in his hand.

 

    The house is suffocating, so Bard goes for a walk the next day. He catches the bus and it takes him to York so there he wanders around, looking at the buildings, remembering places he has been and faces he knows but doesn’t.

    He comes to a stop at a tall building. On the side of the door, a small insignia that is a leaf is engraved on a plaque. Bard considers going in, but thinks better of it. Instead, he enters the bookstore latched to the side of the office.

    The books are familiar, all of them with rich, gold-embossed covers. Bard explores the shelves, wondering if his memory will fail him enough to end up buying one. He wants to, but he persistently reminds himself that he doesn’t need to.

    There is a person minding the shop. He looks somewhere near his mid-twenties and is very tired. He studies Bard from behind the counter with a curious expression.

    “Aren’t you that guy?” he finally says, pulling Bard out from the depths of _Moby Dick._

    “What guy?” Bard asks, returning the book to its shelf.

    The man disappears below the counter for a moment then reappears with a magazine from nearly three months ago.

    “This guy,” he says, presenting it to Bard.

    Bard peers at the magazine. The pages he is being shown have various pictures of Thranduil, but Bard focuses on a picture of himself in the bottom corner. It is from earlier that year and he looks a great deal happier than he does now. He is walking with Thranduil and the caption reads; _THRANDUIL MOURNS OVER LOSS OF BOYFRIEND._

    Bard takes the magazine, regarding it incredulously. Another thing he has forgotten is that Thranduil is famous; quite ridiculously so, as well. Bard reads the small excerpt beneath the photograph.

    _Oropherion’s past achievements aside, it seems he has become a recluse ever since the news of his boyfriend’s car accident broke out. Bard Bowman, 34, is currently in ICU at Harrogate District Hospital in a critical condition. Oropherion was unavailable to comment on the specifics of the condition._

    “Everyone thought you died,” says the man at the counter, still looking at Bard.

    Bard hands the magazine back without a word. Sometimes he wishes he had. Dying would have been easier than this.

    He leaves the bookstore and goes back to Thranduil’s house, regretting having left at all. The world is so much louder than Bard remembers it. There is no silence for him to find consolation in.

    On the way, he stops at the store and buys flour, rice, peanut butter and hair-ties. It is only when he puts it all on the kitchen counter at Thranduil’s house when he realises he doesn’t need them. In fact, why did he think to buy them at all? Confused and his back hurting again, Bard retires to the sun room to nap on the sofa there.

 

    Irritated beyond belief, Bard gives up on looking for a job. No school will take him at this time of the year and he resorts to adding himself to the long list of desperate teachers at a temp agency. Bard hopes he will be able to get by until next year, or mid-year if luck is on his side.

    He heads back home when Galion returns from his daughter’s wedding. They exchange a few words. Galion always looks at Bard like he wants to convey sympathy, but is never quite sure what to say.

    Bard’s house is quite possibly more depressing than ever, especially with no one there to greet him. He lies on the hard floor of the lounge room to ease the pain in his back and plays with a Rubik’s Cube to pass the hours, solving it over and over again. He is frustrated with boredom and indecision.

   But time seems to blur. The school year starts and Bard suddenly hasn’t the chance to gather himself before he is bustling his children back to school, all of them still coming down from the excitement of their holidays. He sees them off down the street to the bus stop, wishing he had a car to drive them, wishing he could be useful. There is no greater grief than to be useless in the eyes of your own children.

    He gets a call from Thranduil that morning. They are both of them feeling oddly empty without their kids so Bard invites him over so that they might keep each other company.

    It’s not much, but it’s all they have for now; small gestures and averted glances. There is a great deal not spoken between them, yet every word is conveyed all the same. Bard wonders if he will ever get used to it.

    “What will you do?” Thranduil says, prodding a finger through the crocheted tablecloth.

    “Do?”

    “About work? I can get you a job at my firm, if you like.”

    Bard shakes his head. “I signed up to a temp agency. Hopefully something will open up every now and then. I will need a car, though.”

    Thranduil goes slightly pale at this, which is a more prominent change now that he has been browned by the French sun. “You are brave enough to drive?” he says quietly. It sounds very forced.

    “I have to be. I’ll be taking work at whatever school I can, so I need to be able to get there,” Bard replies reasonably.

    Thranduil does not look pleased by this idea, but Bard chooses to ignore the flicker of fear behind his eyes. He, Bard, would like nothing more than to never get behind the wheel of a car again, but his career demands it of him, and so he must oblige if he is ever to enter the friendliness of a staff room again.

    “What school is Legolas at now?” he asks, opting for a slight change in conversation.

    “Richard Taylor,” Thranduil says.

    “Tilda goes there,” says Bard brightly.

   Thranduil seems to relax at this, his shoulders slouching back. “I know. I'm glad he will know someone,” he says.

    They lapse back to silence, breaking it occasionally with sips of coffee. But Bard looks at Thranduil sometimes and catches his eye. He cannot help pondering about the things he has told Thranduil, or might have wanted to, but never did. Here is a man who has shown him infallible kindness and love, but did Bard ever show the same? What on earth convinced Thranduil to stay with him after all this time?

    There is something here Bard cannot fathom, but he doubts if it is at all possible to do so.

    How much can the heart take before it gives up completely? How much heartache can two people be expected to endure? Bard thinks it is time for mending; it is time for everything to fall into place so that ending might be softer and kinder than the middle. Whatever is left is broken, but it is ready to be put back together. Bard knows this is where he needs to be, even if it sucks, even if it aches. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *throws glitter* please love me.  
> also, i'm sorry if it's poorly edited. I'll get to that in the morning.  
> and, thank you thank you thank you all for your kind comments! they keep this fic afloat like no other things does and i am eternally in awe


	23. Teaching

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, I'm gonna put everything at the beginning so it doesn't spoil the end. Some of you will have noticed that the chapters now have names! I spent an hour on them and I'm quite happy. I couldn't stand that they didn't have titles. I just thought I'd mention this so you can all appreciate my half-arsed effort.  
> Anyway, you'll also notice that this is chapter 23/24. It's officially almost over. I don't know if I'm sad or relieved, but it's there. I apologise that this chapter is also quite short, but I promise that the last one (*sobs*) will be really long. And, that's all I'm saying!  
> Go forth, friends, there is a happy ending here.

A long, dreary week passes. It rains and the humidity makes Bard tired. He keeps to his house, finding ways to occupy himself, though with little success. He has grown bored of the Rubik’s cube and it sits abandoned on the kitchen table until Bain takes it back, as it is actually his.

    Thranduil is apparently very busy. With what, Bard doesn’t know, and isn’t told when he asks, but he only asks once. Their calls are brief and leave Bard feeling lonelier than when they do not speak at all. It seems as though whenever he and Thranduil are finally starting to come back to one another, an obstacle gets in the way.

    But Bard’s questions are answered on Saturday when Thranduil finally agrees to come over. He brings Legolas and the children play outside, blessed by the sun again and by the weekend that has at last arrived. The first week back at school always dampens their summer spirit.

    Bard and Thranduil sit outside at a scrubbed wooden table. Thranduil leans back in the chair, his skin embracing the sun. His leg sticks out awkwardly, his foot turned in. He watches the chaos in the garden with a soft, fond expression. Bard is fascinated to see how comfortable he is. Thranduil seems happy to be wherever Bard’s children are, as though they are his family too. And perhaps, in many ways, this is true.

    This comforts and upsets Bard in equal measure. He is glad his children have love for Thranduil, but wishes he might be a part of that affection too. He feels like an outsider; only there to observe what has unfolded in his absence. There is a great warmth between Bard's children and Thranduil, but it is in nature very sad for it was borne of collective grief. Bard wishes it wasn’t so. He wishes he had been there to ensure it was something better; something good and whole and happy.

    He hopes it is not too late to change this.

    Thranduil looks eager to tell him something. He leans across the table, propping his chin on a hand smartly. His blue eyes flicker to Bard, alight with an enthusiasm he has not seen for many months.

   “I want to open a school,” Thranduil says.

    Bard blinks at him, unsure if he has heard correctly.

    “A school?” he repeats in amazement. Then he pauses, thinking very hard. “This has nothing to do with me not having a job, does it?”

    “Of course not!” Thranduil says, looking scandalised, but also quite amused. “I have thought on it for some weeks now.”

    “What kind of school?” Bard says, deciding to humour Thranduil.

    “A school for children with disabilities; one that caters to their needs and different ways of learning.”

    Bard opens his mouth to speak, but it takes a couple of tries before any actually words come out.

    “That isn’t as straightforward as you make it sound,” he says.

    Thranduil frowns. “I understand that, but it’s not exactly the first idea of its kind. If other people have achieved this, so can I. Besides, I have the money; all I need now is the means.”

    “Means?”

    “Well, I have no pupils or teachers, you see.” Thranduil looks at Bard very deliberately.

    “You cannot be serious? This _is_ because I have no job!”

    “Don’t get your ego in a twist, Bard,” Thranduil admonishes affectionately. “I had this idea long before you were added to its equation.”

    Bard scowls but does not argue. True, working for Thranduil would be something of a life-saver, but there is no sure way for this plan to go as Thranduil wants it to. Bard has heard of the schools that cater to the needs of disabled children and they struggle to find teachers and money. It is very difficult to fund and run such an establishment.

    Even still, if anyone can, it’s Thranduil.

    “Where will you have the school? At your house?” Bard says.

    “No, don’t be silly. My house is not big enough.”

    

    Thranduil’s house is not big enough, so Bard is dragged across the country in search of a building that is. He and Thranduil spend weeks wandering old manors and abandoned schools, Thranduil tsking and tutting at steep flights of stairs or small windows. Bard trails behind him, ignoring the pain in his back and making comments when he thinks they are needed. He doesn’t really know why he is brought along, but it gives him something to do. And it is time spent with Thranduil, which is something Bard has sorely missed, he realises.

    They travel to London where Thranduil is nearly convinced into buying an old hospital with silent wards and dark passageways. Bard points out, however, that its reputation might deter parents from enrolling their children and Thranduil hurries out of the building.

    In Oxford they wander the long halls of a once prestigious university, but when Bard says it is too big, Thranduil immediately agrees and they leave it at that.

    They also brave the windy hills of Wales where they explore a rickety old castle with a fallen-in roof and shattered windows. Bard remarks the graffiti with some distaste and says that it will be challenging to restore if teenagers are constantly breaking in. Thranduil nods at this, and they head back home.

    Bard begins to doubt if they will ever find somewhere suitable for a school. Thranduil’s determination is not subdued, however. He calls nearly every day to tell Hard about one building or another that he has found on the internet. Bard always responds with ‘yeah’s and ‘mm’s because he really doesn’t understand why Thranduil values his opinion so much. Nevertheless, it has been a long time since he has seen Thranduil quite this excited about something, so Bard encourages him.

    Sigrid, Tilda and Bain are all also very keen about Thranduil’s idea to start a school. Bain already plans to work there when he finishes school, deciding to get a teaching degree at university. Bard is surprised to hear he wants to be a teacher.

    “Why not?” Bain says. “I like teaching people.”

    “You just like be smarter than everyone else in the room,” Sigrid retorts, not looking up from her laptop.

    Bain shakes his fist at her. “Why don’t you tell da what _you_ want to do when you finish school?” he snaps.

    Bard looks at his daughter, curious. His eldest children have never really considered life beyond compulsory education, but he is glad to see they are finally taking it seriously. No doubt their school has been drilling the idea of careers into the higher grade students.

    “I want to be a photographer. There’s nothing wrong with that,” Sigrid says firmly.

    “Doesn’t your school offer a photography class?” Bard says with a smile.

    “Yeah, they do! For A-Levels,” Sigrid replies, shooting a superior look to Bain at their father’s approval.

    “I’m going to be a nurse!” Tilda pipes up from the sofa in the next room.

    “Tilda, you can’t even take the backing off a plaster,” Bain tells her.

    “That’s what medical school is for,” she says indignantly, sticking out her tongue.

    “Hey, da, look at this,” Sigrid suddenly says, waving Bard over to her laptop.

    He peers down at the screen at an image of a derelict old castle on a website that sells historical buildings.

    “Have you been helping Thranduil look for schools?” he says, half amazed, half disapproving.

    “Yeah, I’m messaging him right now,” Sigrid informs. She switches the internet tabs to Facebook where Thranduil’s name sits above a tiny conversation in the right-hand corner.

    “I didn’t know he has Facebook,” Bard murmurs, squinting at the conversation.

    “I made him get it a few months ago. Oh, look, he likes it!” Sigrid points to a little white message sent from Thranduil, which was just a lot of exclamation marks.

    Just then, Bard’s phone rings in his pocket.

    "Hello?"

    “Are you dressed?” It's Thranduil.

    “No,” Bard says somewhat wearily, looking down at his pyjamas.

    “I’ll be there in thirty minutes.”

    Thranduil hangs up without another word and Bard sighs. He is tired and had been hoping to have just one day to relax with his kids. But he is apparently not allowed reprieve from Thranduil’s real-estate adventure. Bard goes to his bedroom and finds some clothes.

    “Can we go too, da?” Tilda squeaks, toppling over the back of the sofa.

    “Yeah, this place looks really cool!” Bain says, looking at the picture on Sigrid’s laptop.

    “There won’t be enough room in the car,” Bard argues half-heartedly.

    “It’s not far. We can squeeze in,” Sigrid says.

    And with that, Bard and his children all squash themselves into Thranduil’s car, which is considerably more cramped than they anticipated since Legolas insisted on coming along as well. He and Thranduil sit up the front while the other four take up the back seats, Tilda sitting on Bard’s lap.

    The drive there is animated and noisy and Galion looks very relieved to stop the car when they arrive almost an hour later. The party file out onto a gravel path. It opens up into a wide driveway through a low, weather-beaten wall. The building before them is unlike anything Bard has ever seen. It is four stories high, with a centre structure extending another storey above that. Small, panelled windows peer down at them from ivy and moss-covered brick. There is a rectangular, many-windowed wing to the left of the main entrance and the rest of the building goes up and down with its many buttresses and towers.

    It looks, in Bard’s opinion, like a school.

    “What do you think?” Thranduil says, his voice a little higher than usual in his exhilaration.

    “It’s… old,” Bard says honestly.

    “It was a school in the eighteen-eighties,” Thranduil says, staring up at it fondly. “And since it requires such extensive restoration, it is a great deal cheaper than anything else we have looked at.”

    “Can we go inside?” asks Bain.

    “Soon. The real-estate agent should be here any moment. Oh, there she is.”

    Another car appears from the winding road and a harassed-looking woman tumbles out of it, clutching a clipboard and a large ring of ancient-looking keys.

    Chattering happily, she leads them up the path and into the house. The front door creaks when it is opened and the sound echoes into a deserted entrance hall, the wallpaper peeling and the floorboards sporting holes in many places. Bard sees a nest of spiders sitting in one corner of the tall ceiling and there is a distinct buzzing noise in the other room that sounds like a hive of bees, and probably is.

    They set about exploring the building, which feels somehow larger from the inside. The corridors and passageways cross over and under each other, creating a maze-like atmosphere. Thranduil’s cane makes echoing _thunks_ against the dusty floorboards.

    Evidence of the school before its closure a few years ago is strewn about the old classrooms. Desks and broken chairs are scattered about, and what appears to have once been a library is now a graveyard of moth-eaten books.

    Overall, Thranduil looks quite pleased with the place. Already he is pointing out where the elevator will go and how certain passageways will be widened for wheelchair access. Walking through the dusty ruins of the school with Thranduil’s commentary makes it feel very real. Looking around, Bard can see the idea unfolding.

    But still he has his doubts. He wonders if Thranduil knows what he is up against. It is not an easy thing to start a school, and who is to say he will not regret it after a few years?

    However, Bard feels the need to support Thranduil in this and it is at his nod of approval that the deal for the building is signed. Then, the small ensemble head into the nearby town for lunch.

    “Will I be able to attend your school?” Tilda asks, scooping a marshmallow out of her hot chocolate.

    “I see no reason why you shouldn’t. The education will be the same,” Thranduil says, smiling down at her.

    “How are you going to get teachers? Do you have a curriculum? Are you going to be the principal? How will classes be run?” are Bard’s questions.

    Thranduil shoots him a very steely glare, but his smile does not waver. “You are making it so complicated, Bard. I am not one to throw myself in the deep end, you know.”

    Bard is sceptical, but does not persist for answers. He just hopes this will not blow up in Thranduil’s face.

    They journey home with warm smiles and good talk, all of them looking forward to how the restoration of the school will go. Thranduil explains that he will start to make calls once he gets the papers for the property.

    “You do not think I’m making the right decision,” he says at Bard’s door, his eyebrow quirked.

    Bard sighs, chewing his lip. “I just think you’re not taking it seriously enough,” he admits.

    Thranduil frowns slightly. “I am tired of taking things seriously. It has been a long time since I have invested myself in something I actually like.”

    “But you’re not a teacher,” Bard protests, glancing up at Thranduil uneasily.

    “True, but I understand what it's like to be forced to attend a school that does not consider your needs. I don’t want children to know the pain that comes with doing physical exercise or to know how to feels to be teased for something they cannot control. I have money and I have publicity and I am not using it to my advantage. It is high time I made a difference.”

    “Don’t you think you’re overlooking a lot of things? You don’t –”

    “I _do_. I do know what I’m doing. Why do you think I’ve not been calling this week? I meant it when I said I was busy,” Thranduil says, eyeing Bard a little critically.

    Bard feels embarrassed. He realises he has not taken the time to consider that Thranduil does in fact have a life outside of caring about him. He has had little to dwell on apart from his own thoughts. Bard has forgotten how to understand other people.

    “Okay,” he finally says, smiling. “Well, if this is what you want, then I am at your disposal. I do think it is a wonderful idea.”

    Thranduil beams. To Bard’s surprise, he leans forward and kisses his cheek and it leaves a mark like a burn. Bard shuffles on his feet, blushing.

    “Oh, I love you. I could not do this without you,” Thranduil says.

    And as though he said only an idle goodbye, Thranduil returns to the car and it drives away, leaving Bard at his door. He feels rather stunned. There is something in the way Thranduil said them – so honestly and casually – that has those four words ringing in Bard's ears.

    Trying to shake it off, Bard goes into his house.

    “You know, I think this might be good for you two,” Sigrid motions when he enters the kitchen.

    “What do you mean?” he wonders absently, getting a mug from the cupboard for tea.

    “You’re going to help Thranduil with his school, right?”

    “I suppose I am, yeah.”

    “Well, it’s a good excuse to fall in love again, don’t you think?” Sigrid adds, a playful smile on her lips.

    Bard nearly drops the mug, blushing furiously. “You don’t need an excuse to fall in love, Sigrid, it just happens,” he mutters.

    He hears her laugh briefly, almost sarcastically. “Then, what is taking you so long?”

    Bard swivels around, staring at her, his knuckles white around the mug. “What?”

    Sigrid gives her father a very impatient look, which reminds him very strongly of his late wife. “You were really happy, da, happier than I’ve ever seen you. And I thought everything would go back to normal when you woke up – we all thought that – but it’s almost like you won’t let yourself be that happy person again. You’ve got something really good in front of you and you’re letting it get away.”

    Bard’s heart is beating very fast. He knows she is talking about Thranduil. “It’s not – I don’t – it isn’t –”

    “See? You can’t even think of an excuse for yourself. Go back to him, da. For his sake, for your sake, for all our sake’s.”

    “If I go back now, it won’t be the same. I’m not whole yet.” Bard grimaces at this, his back aching as though reminding him of just how broken he is. “Love isn’t like it is in the books, okay? It takes time and understanding and - and reason.”

    Sigrid scoffs. “If you keep looking for reason, Thranduil is going to be long dead before you get back together. And you know the worst part about that? I think he would actually wait that long.”

    “But I don’t feel the same!” Bard exclaims, smacking the mug down on the counter. He can’t believe he’s having this conversation with a fifteen year-old. “It’s not fair on him.”

    “And is it fairer to do nothing at all? Your feelings for him won’t come back if you just _wait._ Why are you drawing it out? You want things to be the same, but you’re the one that’s making them different!”

    Bard wants to yell at her, but she’s telling the truth. Less than half his age, yet Sigrid is wise beyond her years. And this is quite intimidating to Bard, if he is honest. He stares at her, not knowing what to say. What can he say?  

    Sigrid takes a deep breath, looking very meaningfully at Bard. “Things were never going to be the same. All of us are changed. You’re not the only who has had their emotions tampered with. But I think that, for things to be better, you have to start accepting them as they are. Thranduil still loves you, da, and I know you feel the same way, or else you wouldn’t be standing there and taking this.”

 

Thranduil finds some quiet at last. On the sofa upstairs, he stretches out in front of the window and opens his book. A light breeze flutters the curtains. It is cool and brings autumn with it, the heat of summer finally dissipating and giving way to softer weather.

    But he is there barely twenty minutes when he sees something outside; a figure darting up his driveway. Thranduil stares at the stranger for a moment, but soon realises it is Bard. Bard is sprinting up his driveway.

    Heart pounding with anxiety, Thranduil drops his book and runs back downstairs, ignoring his leg when it seizes in protest.

    _Something must be wrong._

    He nearly reaches the bottom of the stairs when his front door suddenly flings open and a very flustered-looking Bard skids to a halt in the entrance hall. For a moment he looks at Thranduil, his expression indecipherable. Then, in a single motion, he walks over and crushes Thranduil into a kiss.


	24. Phosphenes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not crying.

Thranduil wakes to a yellow dawn. The sun creeps into the bedroom through unfamiliar curtains and it takes him a moment to remember where he is, for it has been so long since he has slept in a different bed. The sheets are clean and gentle against his skin and there is a distinct weight on the other side of the mattress. When Thranduil stretches, it stirs. He smiles, rolling over to face Bard, who is still sleeping. Normally, it is he who is the first to wake of the two of them, but Thranduil supposes he is tired after painting the bathroom the previous day. There is still white paint on his fingers and streaks of it in his hair.

    Deciding to let him sleep, Thranduil kisses Bard on the cheekbone and gets out of bed, stretching once more. His elbow hurts, which is why he woke so early, but it is finally summer again and the sun coming up from the horizon brings eager warmth to his face. The days are long and he is happy.

    He wanders into the kitchen, pulling on a robe with some difficulty. Thranduil navigates the corridor awkwardly, unsteady in the new house as it is still so foreign to him. It smells of fresh paint.

    Much of the house is still unfinished. The kitchen cupboards don’t have doors and the empty sitting room requires a second coat of paint. Thranduil opens some windows and surveys it all with fondness, however, for this house is theirs. He and Bard designed it together.

    It is situated a little distance from the recently refurbished school, down a path that winds through a thicket of trees and surrounding fields. It is two stories with a garden that grows into the windows and bricks and gaps in the fence. It is, in Thranduil’s opinion, nothing short of perfect. It is home.

    However, it remains a relatively empty home. Most of their possessions are tucked away in boxes. Thranduil goes looking for coffee in the hall where they are stacked against the wall. To his amazement, he finds Tilda there, rummaging through some cables.

    “Oh, good morning,” she says brightly, looking up at him.

    Thranduil stares blearily at her. It is unusual for anyone apart from Bard to be awake at this time, but for Tilda it is especially strange. Thranduil is a bit too tired to dwell on it, however, so he doesn’t question it.

    “What are you looking for?” he asks instead as he opens a box labelled ‘nutrition,’ which had been his idea of a joke as there is only coffee and sweets inside.

    “Television remote,” Tilda replies absently, still digging through the cables.

    “What’s on television?”

    “Tauriel.”

    Thranduil nearly drops the coffee in shock. Of course! He nearly forgot his old CEO is doing an interview for _Imladris_. She called the other day to tell him.

    Thranduil helps Tilda look for the remote and they hastily set up the television together in the lounge room. There is still twenty minutes before the interview so Thranduil goes to wake up Bard while Tilda runs upstairs to rouse her brother and sister and Legolas.

    “Bard? Bard, wake-up. Tauriel’s interview is about to start,” Thranduil says, shaking Bard gently.

    Bard groans and rolls onto his back to check the time, looking very dishevelled and sleepy.

    “I’ll make coffee,” Thranduil tells him.

    While Bard grumbles about being woken, Thranduil bustles around the kitchen making coffee and toast. Footsteps emerge from the other bedrooms and Bain, Sigrid and Legolas all shuffle into the sitting room, yawning in their pyjamas. Bain looks like he is still asleep, his eyes half-closed as he sits on the floor next to Tilda (there is no furniture yet), who is looking for the right program on the television. Legolas follows suit and Sigrid appears beside Thranduil. She pours herself some coffee, running a hand through her hair. It has been cropped very short and dyed pink.

    “Give this to your brother,” Thranduil says, filling another mug with coffee. “I think he is going to fall asleep again.”

    Humming with laughter, Sigrid takes the coffee to her brother and then returns to help Thranduil with toast. While they smear butter on over a dozen pieces, Elrond’s voice sounds from the television, cutting through the silence.

    _“It has been almost a year since_ Greenleaf Books _was handed over to its CEO. In that time, we have seen remarkable changes and it’s worth considering what might have happened if Mister Oropherion had given up his position earlier. Currently, the celebrated ex-publisher is overseeing the plans for his new school, which is due to open in September. Tauriel, do you still keep in touch with your old boss?”_

    Tauriel’s firm voice speaks and Thranduil turns around to look at the television just as Bard enters the kitchen, his slippers on the wrong feet.

 _“Oh, of course,”_ Tauriel says, smiling. _“We’re both really busy, especially with the new school year coming up, but we met up for coffee just last week. He’s doing really great. He’s happy.”_

 _“You’re supplying all the books for his school, aren’t you?”_ says Elrond.

_“Yeah! We set up a foundation with the textbooks. Forty percent of the profits go to various children’s charities, depending on the subject you buy. It’s going really well, actually. Our textbook designs are… more attractive than the standard ones, so parents and kids alike are really enthusiastic about buying them.”_

    _“And how are you? Does it suit you, being the head of such an esteemed company?”_ Elrond asks.

    _“It’s a lot more work than I realised, but I think I’m managing it okay,”_ Tauriel replies.

_“You must be. I hear sales have never been higher.”_

    Thranduil feels a surge of pride at these words. He sits down on the floor with the others, setting the plate of toast down. Bard joins him. Thranduil cannot cross his legs, so Bard lets him stretch his left leg over his lap.

    _“Well, Kili and Fili are a bottomless pit of ideas. It’s really thanks to them that the company is doing so well,”_ Tauriel says.

    _“I heard you gave Bloomsbury Books something to sulk about the other month_ ,” Elrond continues, a light smirk on his face.

    Tauriel grins broadly. _“Our quarrel with them has been long-suffering, if I’m honest. They thought they could try and buy us out – as if they hadn’t tried the same trick when Thranduil was in charge. I told them where they could stick their cheques.”_

    Bard snorts into his coffee.

    _“And what of your personal life? The public have hardly failed to notice the ring on your finger,”_ Elrond concludes.

    The camera zooms in on Tauriel’s left hand. She wiggles her fingers cheerfully. _“The wedding isn’t for another few weeks, but we’re keeping it private. Just family and friends.”_

    Thranduil glances to a gold-and-white invitation on the refrigerator. It is the only thing on the door apart from some magnets and a phone bill. He smiles at it.

    The interview finishes and the little group on the floor finish their breakfast, talking excitedly about Tauriel. Thranduil is extremely proud of her. She tied together all the loose ends of the firm, something Thranduil had always struggled with. As boss, he had never been able to escape half-finished projects and vague ideas. Tauriel brought a great deal of closure to his company and, though no longer involved in it, Thranduil is very thrilled for her.

    After breakfast, everyone returns to their respective bedrooms to dress, or to one of the two bathrooms to wash. Though Bard looks longingly at the bed, he steels himself to put on some clothes.

    “Are we painting the lounge room today?” he says to Thranduil, pulling on his jeans.

    “We? No, not me. My leg hurts so much today, you know, and –”

    “It does not!” Bard cuts him off, folding his arms crossly. “You’re not getting it out of it this time.”

    Thranduil flashes a grin. “Periwinkle looks good after all, don’t you think?”

    “You mean blue? Yeah.”

    Thranduil rolls his eyes and follows Bard out of the bedroom. In the sitting room, Legolas is watching cartoons with Bain, who is onto his second cup of coffee. No doubt he was up late again texting his new boyfriend.

    Sigrid and Tilda come bounding down the stairs in the hall to the left.

    “Where are you going?” Bard asks them, his lips playing at a smile.

    “On an adventure!” Tilda answers delightedly.

    “Another one?” Thranduil laughs.

    “We’re coming too!” says Legolas quickly. “Adar, can you pack us some sandwiches?”

    Bard’s children exchange horrified glances with each other that Thranduil does not fail to notice. Bard catches on as well, smirking. He goes to the kitchen and starts making sandwiches in Thranduil’s stead while Thranduil inquires after the adventure.

    “Well, we haven’t explored the forest yet. The big one between us and the horse farm,” Bain tells him.

    “You’re not afraid to get lost?” Thranduil says, speaking more for his own worry than theirs.

    “Nah! Legolas has a really good sense of direction,” Bain supplies.

    Legolas beams at his father and Thranduil smiles back. He should have expected such a skill from his son.

    When the children are packed with sandwiches and water, they disappear down the path leading to the school, Legolas running ahead of them on his quick feet. Thranduil watches them go, inhaling the silence that comes with their absence.

    He gets the box of paint supplies while Bard moves the television into the hall. Together they lay newspaper down on the floor at the edges of the walls. Thranduil is somewhat dreading painting the sitting room, for it is the largest room to paint and will be no easy task. But, Bard sets a record player on a stool by the open sliding doors to hopefully make the workload lighter.

    Thranduil rolls back the sleeves of his shirt and ties up his hair, which has grown nearly half a foot since last year. He gets to work, pouring out some paint and dipping the roller in it. He frowns up at the wall; it looks so much bigger now that they have to paint it.

    A warm summer breeze filters into the room through windows and doors. It carries a song Thranduil does not recognise.

    “What band is this?” he asks.

    Without looking, he points the paint roller in the general direction of the record player. It meets Bard’s face with a wet _smack_. Thranduil whips around in dismay.

    Bard sighs, as if it comes as no surprise. Thranduil claps a hand to his mouth, stifling a laugh and unsticking the roller from Bard’s face, which is now a handsome periwinkle blue.

    “I’m sorry,” he chokes, struggling to keep his merriment at bay.

    “Nick Cave and the Bad Seeds,” Bard says, wiping his face on his t-shirt.

    “What?”

    “The band.”

    “Ah.”

    Thranduil turns back to the wall, wondering where on earth he is supposed to begin. Before he can decide, however, he feels something cold and wet roll up his back and into his hair.

    Thranduil whirls around on his heel, glaring at Bard who is holding a freshly-dipped paint roller and sporting a very smug look on his face. He shrugs innocently and approaches the corner of the wall, setting the roller against it and starting to paint. Fuming, but accepting his punishment, Thranduil wipes down the back of his neck with a towel and then joins Bard, shooting him a furious look.

    They work in silence for a while, listening to the vinyl play itself through the songs. Thranduil constantly needs to switch the arm he is using as so much exercise makes his elbows ache. He doesn’t mind, though. The weather is good and the sun is beginning to come through the open door and Thranduil is enjoying the comforting smiles he is exchanging with Bard.

    Things are easier now. It is good to be with Bard, here where the trees are kind and layered bricks of their house keep them safe. It was a long, trying year. The restoration of the school hit many bumps and the winter had been harsh, both in weather and in heart. Even now, Bard sometimes wakes in the middle of the night from an aching back or a nightmare, and there are days when Thranduil cannot get out of bed for his leg or his hip. But the touches they share are gentle enough to keep all bad things at bay. The weather is lovely again and there is memory in Bard’s eyes.

    It is nearing midday when they take a break from painting. Thranduil is nursing his elbow so Bard is the one to dig through the refrigerator for leftovers. He finds pasta from the night before and puts it in the microwave. Closing the refrigerator, he then looks at the wedding invitation on the door. He sighs.

    “What is it?” Thranduil muses, watching him.

    “I haven’t been to a wedding since my own,” Bard says.

    Thranduil’s stomach flips uncomfortably. He has been to many weddings and understands Bard’s concern. The pain of attending them doesn’t pass; there is always the ache of memory when the person who met you down the aisle is no longer there.

    “We do not have to go if it will be too difficult for you,” Thranduil begins. “I’m sure Tauriel –”

    “It’s not that,” Bard says. He pauses before continuing. To Thranduil’s surprise, he is blushing. “It’s just… it’s been so long and… well… I can’t really dance, you see.”

    Thranduil bites his lip very hard to stop from smiling, trying to meet Bard’s gaze seriously. But he can’t help it. His face cracks into a grin. Bard returns it sheepishly. He opens the microwave before it beeps and retrieves bowls from the boxes in the hall. They eat without speaking, both lost in their own thoughts.

    Pushing his empty bowl aside, Thranduil flips through the box of records next to the turntable and selects the one they had first played. He grabs Bard from the kitchen.

    “What are you –?” Bard protests, but Thranduil cuts him off.

    “Put your foot there. And your hand goes here.”

    Bard turns impossibly redder. “You’re not teaching me how to dance!” he cries, trying to tug himself out of Thranduil’s grip.

    “I’ll not be seen at a wedding with a boyfriend who cannot dance. I’ll be a laughing stock.” Thranduil takes a step forward and Bard stumbles back, swearing. “Please pay attention, Bard. Surely you know _a little_. I daresay you danced with your wife at your wedding.”

    “Well, yeah, but that was years ago. I’ve forgotten,” Bard mutters, staring down at his feet. Thranduil kicks him. “Hey!”

    “Do not look at your feet,” Thranduil admonishes, fighting back a smirk. He is rather enjoying himself. “I do not wish to waste this song.”

    “It’s a depressing one, though.”

    “No it isn’t.”   

    Bard takes a deep breath and straightens himself, a hint of determination in his eyes. Thranduil smiles and takes the lead again. It has been a long time since he danced as well, but feels it is not something he might easily forget. Even with his left leg to encumber him, his lessons had been thorough.

    He takes his time with Bard, guiding him through the steps. But he catches on quite quickly, finding confidence in his feet. Thranduil even dares to twirl him, which has them both laughing. And then the music wavers and the song ends. Bard stands on tip-toe and brings Thranduil down into a kiss that makes his lips tingle.

    They return to painting, as it needs to be done. When the last wall is finished, Bard goes to wash off the paint in his hair and on his hands. Thranduil sneaks into the shower with him.

    When they get out, clean and extremely flushed, the children return from their adventure. Sigrid finds a vase for the flowers she picked while Bain launches into a long-winded story about a deer. Legolas and Tilda compare grazes from climbing trees. It brings Thranduil indescribable joy.

    “Hey, you finished painting!” says Sigrid, looking up from the flowers to the sitting room.

    “Can we finally set up the telly properly, then?” says Tilda.

    “We should have a movie night!” pipes of Legolas.

    “Later, perhaps. It needs to dry,” Bard tells them firmly. “If I see even the slightest trace of a fingerprint on these walls, there will be hell to pay.”

    -

Bard hastens to catch up with Thranduil who is taking long strides down a gravel path to a cathedral. Tilda, Sigrid, Bain and Legolas trail behind them in a duckling-like fashion.

     “Hurry,” Thranduil says, falling back for a second to take Legolas’ hand.

    Down the path and into the cathedral, the six of them follow the aisle of seats to the front. Most of the cathedral is already full and some people shoot dirty looks in their direction for being so late. But the ceremony has not yet started and they sit down comfortably. Haldir is behind them and he slings an arm over Thranduil’s shoulder, whispering something into his ear. Thranduil waves him away impatiently and leans his cane against the seat. He rubs his knee. Instinctively, Bard reaches for his hand, brushing their fingers together to offer comfort. Thranduil smiles at him.

    Bard feels very awkward being invited to this wedding. Of course, he is here on account of Thranduil, but he is a stranger to the everyone else. Behind him, many of the guests are waving to their friends on opposite sides of the cathedral or chatting happily with their neighbours. While they wait, a few people even come over and speak to Thranduil briefly, offering some small talk and questions about the school. They pay Bard no attention. Not that he minds, of course, but it makes him feel very out of place.

    But Thranduil does not seem to notice. As soon as whoever is speaking to him leaves, he returns his attention to Bard or one of the children, a wide smile on his face. He looks very handsome, Bard thinks. He is always very smart in a suit and it reminds Bard of when they first met.

    After several minutes, a hush falls upon the guests as a Kili and Fili arrive at the altar. Next to Bard, Sigrid is practically squirming with excitement. She has spoken of little else aside from Tauriel’s wedding for the past week, though Bard has caught onto the hint of jealousy in her tone at times. He isn’t sure why she is jealous, however, and he finds it curious.

    Kili looks very nervous. His brother checks on him constantly, as though concerned he might become hysterical at any moment. Bard remembers being in that position. He knows it isn’t just nerves, it’s fear – the fear of being left up there alone.

    Kili is not abandoned to such cruelty, however. The music plays and it leads the bridesmaids down the aisle, dressed in soft yellow, the light fabric dancing about their knees. A flower girl comes, throwing petals at her feet, and then the maid of honour, and then Tauriel.

    Her hair is longer now. It curls elegantly around her ears. A silver circlet is perched upon a fluttering veil that covers her face. She looks very pretty, and Bard notices the way Sigrid straightens up when she sees her, and then he realises. He smiles briefly, feeling a little sorry for his daughter, and understands now why she always wore her best clothes when Tauriel visited.

    The ceremony is long and the words exchanged are simple and sweet. Bard cannot help but think of his own wedding all throughout, unable to stop remembering his own vows and his own hands lifting the veil to kiss his wife. It all feels like a distant memory; another lifetime ago.

    Bard averts his gaze to Thranduil, who looks as though he might burst into tears. He is not alone, either. Both Tilda and Sigrid’s eyes are shining and Bain’s lip is wobbling slightly. Haldir, however, has surpassed all predilections for self-composure and is weeping into a handkerchief.  Bard resists the urge to roll his eyes. Weddings.

    The reception afterwards is far more enjoyable, in Bard’s opinion. He sits with Haldir, Thranduil and the children at a round table next to the bridal party. Tauriel flitters here and there to other tables, making conversation and smiling very broadly. Eventually she drops her mass of tulle and silk into a chair next to Thranduil, sighing breathlessly.

    “Kili’s extended family is way too… extensive,” she says, reaching for Thranduil’s champagne and sipping it. “I had a half a mind to cut some cousins out of the reception, but he wouldn’t hear of it. But, God, it would have been the sensible thing to do. They are too much.”

    Bard looks over to the other side of the room to see Thorin Oakenshield and his mass of family sitting on the left side of the bridal table, talking loudly and laughing. Thranduil is watching as well, his jaw set, but a flicker of amusement in his eyes.

    “It is strange to come full circle,” he comments, taking his champagne back from the bride.

    “What do you mean?” asks Sigrid, tearing her eyes away from Tauriel for a moment.

    “Look around,” says Tauriel. “Everyone is here.”

    It is quite true. The reception hall is filled with many familiar faces aside from Oakenshield’s. Bard spots the young man who works at Thranduil’s (now, Tauriel’s) bookstore. He sits alongside a pretty woman with thick dark hair, who Bard remembers as Arwen, the doctor. There are two men next to her Bard doesn’t know and beside them is Elrond and then – to Bard’s amazement – Galadriel.

    “This is weird,” Bain says.

    “I should have made it more private,” Tauriel says bitterly. “’Just friends and family’ – pah! This lot was far too expensive.”

    Bard doesn’t doubt it. The hall is lavishly decorated and a glittering chandelier hangs above the dance floor. Its lights reflect the crystals onto the ceiling like a little circle of stars.

    “We’re about to start eating soon. You’ll save me a dance, won’t you, Thranduil?”

    “I wouldn’t dare refuse,” he says.

    Tauriel picks up her dress and returns to the bridal table just as waiters emerge with food.

    As they eat, Bard feels himself becoming increasingly more anxious. He doesn’t really see why he ought to dance when it will only be an excuse to make a fool of himself. If he was sure he could keep his feet, he would brave the dance floor. But the concept doesn’t look promising, if he is entirely honest.

    There are speeches after the food and warm, alcoholic mirth hums around the hall. Bard’s leg twitches under the table as the last speech draws to a close. A slow waltz begins to play and Tauriel and Kili take to the floor. Bard remembers the way he had stumbled and tripped at his own wedding, his wife giggling and helping him along. He had been nervous even then.

    Strangely, Thranduil does not ask Bard to dance. At first, he wonders if Thranduil’s leg is hurting him too much. But, when he requests a dance from Sigrid, Bard realises that it is not Thranduil who must do the asking.

    But he hasn’t the courage. Bard watches Thranduil dance with Sigrid, and then with Tilda, and then with Legolas. He fulfils his promise to Tauriel, dances with Arwen, and even Galadriel. As each of them take his hands and they dance among the other couples, Bard cannot find it within himself to take their place. Thranduil seems to be having a very good time, but Bard does not miss the way he looks at him over the shoulder of his partner.

    “Why aren’t you dancing, da?” Tilda says, sitting down next to Bard.

    “I can’t dance, darling,” he tells her shamefully.

    “Do you want me to teach you?”

     Bard chuckles. “No, I think it is better if I stay seated.”

     Tilda pouts at him. “Thranduil really wants to dance with you. He said so,” she says as-a-matter-of-factly.

    “Yeah, I know,” says Bard, his heart sinking slightly.

    He looks over to where Thranduil is now dancing with Haldir. They are both grinning foolishly as they try to take the lead of each other. Thranduil is taller, however, and has no trouble forcing Haldir into step with his own. Haldir stumbles on purpose, stepping on Thranduil’s feet to annoy him.

    Bard takes a deep breath and stands up just as the song ends. He has done it before and he can do it again. For Thranduil.

    “May I?”

    Haldir turns to Bard, a mixed expression of shock and amusement on his face. He lets go of Thranduil and is immediately swept away by Tauriel, who has been paying attention to the three of them and thought to promptly swing Haldir into an exaggerated waltz.

    “You took your time,” Thranduil remarks, a smirk on his lips that Bard desperately wants to kiss away.

    “I was tossing up the consequences,” Bard says, attempting nonchalance as he follows Thranduil through the steps. He does his best not to be overly attentive of his feet. “It was either this or suffer your passive-aggressiveness for a week.”

    “I’m not passive-aggressive,” Thranduil scowls.

    “Ah, you’re right. Perhaps just ‘aggressive’ was the word I was looking for.”

    Thranduil steps on Bard’s foot very deliberately, but Bard flashes his best grin.

    “You’ll sleep on the couch tonight if you keep this up,” Thranduil says icily, though there humour in his eyes.

    “You wouldn’t turn me out of bed,” says Bard coolly, leaning in slightly to avoid colliding with another couple. He swears he can feel Thranduil’s heart beating very fast when their chests brush momentarily, but he doesn't mention it. “And I’m only joking. I’m just trying to be good to you.”

    “You’ve always been good to me,” Thranduil says quietly.

    “You know what I mean.”

    Thranduil’s brow furrows carefully. “Why will you not forgive yourself?”

    Bard shrugs. “It’s not in my nature.”

    “My patience with you is very long-suffering, Bard,” Thranduil says almost harshly. “You did not leave me on purpose and I did not stick around for you to sulk all the time.

    “Well, what would you have me do instead?” Bard demands somewhat indignantly.

    Thranduil’s expression softens. “The past no longer hinders us and the present is kind,” he says. “Be happy, Bard. Have we not endured enough?”

    Bard sighs. Perhaps they have. How much more can he expect Thranduil to put up with? There is no peace in letting the past haunt him. There is nothing there for them now. There is only this; tender glances and trusting grip and a hundred thousand ways to love each other.

    The song finishes.

    “Do you want to keep dancing?” Bard inquires.

    Thranduil grimaces slightly. “Not right now. I need to rest my leg.”

    Bard is almost sorry to nod, for he had not been doing badly, if he did say so himself. He gets drinks from the bar and when he returns to the table to sit, he finds Thranduil talking to Haldir. It looks like they are arguing. As Bard approaches, however, they lapse into silence.

    He pretends not to notice, though it is very obvious he has. Haldir rises from his chair, shoots a meaningful look to Bard, and then leaves. Bard sits down.

    “What was that about?”

    “Nothing,” Thranduil says curtly, though his voice his shaking slightly. “Haldir is meddling again.”

    “Meddling in what?” Bard asks.

    Thranduil considers this briefly, as if unsure he ought to speak. He sighs heavily, pulling his hair to one side to knot it around his fingers. “He thinks we should get married.”

    It is becoming an unfortunate habit of Bard’s to start drinking whenever Thranduil is about to tell him something. He chokes on his wine, his head swimming.

    “Us?” he says with exasperation.

    Thranduil does not care to hide his hurt expression. “Please, look more horrified,” he says bitterly.

    Bard swallows uneasily, his cheeks flushing with guilt. He did not mean for his response to cause offence; Thranduil’s reply only startled him, is all.

    “Sorry,” he says hastily. “I just meant… er… fuck.”

    Thranduil is very obviously fighting back a smile. He had been joking. “I'm sorry, too,” he says. “Truthfully, I was trying to explain why we should not.”

    “Would you like to?” Bard says before he can think not to.

    Thranduil looks taken aback at this, his eyes widening. “Is this – are you –?”

     No!” Bard tries to recover, his heart skittering. “I didn’t mean it like that! I just – er – wondered,” he finishes lamely.

    “Oh,” Thranduil says.

    Before Bard can say anything to break the tension, Legolas appears. He climbs into the chair next his father and tugs his sleeve.

    “Are we going home soon?” he asks sleepily.

    Bard glances at the time on his watch. It is nearly ten o’clock.

    “I think so,” Thranduil says. He turns to Bard. “Do you want to dance again before we leave?”

    “Not right now,” Bard says.

    They gather the children and bid goodbye to various people, some farewells longer than others. It is another half an hour before they make it outside where Galion is waiting with a standard limousine. They pile in and the drive home is quiet as everyone is too tired to strike up a conversation.

    Bard cannot stop thinking about what he almost implied. He didn’t mean to phrase it quite so carelessly, but now that he has, he wonders if it’s worth bearing in mind. The idea of marrying Thranduil doesn’t exactly frighten him. It is a strangely comforting feeling. Though perhaps it is just the excitement of attending another's that has his thoughts so muddled.

    At home, Thranduil showers while Bard puts everyone to bed. He helps Tilda with the clips in her hair and Bain with his tie. He reads with Legolas for a little while too, for the boy refuses to let his dyslexia get the better of his love for books. He reads a short novel per week now.

    “Bard?” he says when the book is bookmarked and closed.

    “Yeah?”

    “Do you think I can have adventures like that?” Legolas asks. He is lying back against his pillow, gazing up at the ceiling.

    “Sure! You and Bain explore the woods all the time, right?” Bard evokes.  

    “Yeah, but, our world isn’t like the worlds in books. There aren’t any dragons or monsters to slay; no evil to conquer.”

    Bard thinks for a moment. “Well, we do what we can with the world that is given to us. Think about humans, for example. True, we haven’t slain any dragons, but we’ve been to outer space. We’ve walked on other planets and seen stars from a completely different point of view. We’ve made electricity and dug up bones thousands of years old. And we’re nowhere near to discovering all the secrets the world has to offer us.”

    Legolas’ eyes are very round now as he stares up in the semi-darkness. “Now I feel small,” he whispers.

    Bard laughs. “Here,” he says. “Close your eyes, and rub them.”

    “Rub my eyes?”

    “Just do it.”

    Legolas balls his fists and obliges.

    “Keep them shut. What do you see?”

    Legolas’ face screws up in concentration. “Stars,” he says.

    “You might be small, but you have an entire universe inside you, and it’s waiting to be explored.”

    Bard leaves Legolas’ to his universe. He gets up to shut off the light and then spots Thranduil standing by the door in his pyjamas, his hair wet down his back. He is smiling.

    “What?” Bard says, closing Legolas’ bedroom door.

    “Nothing,” Thranduil returns, simpering.

    They go to their own bedroom, footsteps silent, Thranduil limping slightly, his foot turned in against the carpet. Bard trails behind him, his breath hitching, his heart folding over. He can smell the shampoo in Thranduil hair.

    He doesn’t go to bed. Bard puts on his pyjamas, but he doesn’t get in. He finds a good vinyl – a soft one – and he sets it on the record player which is on the table at the window. Thranduil watches him from the bed.

    “How about now?” Bard asks, offering his hand.

    Thranduil smiles again and gets to his feet, going over to Bard.

    “What are you thinking?” he says as they fall into the music.

    “I’m thinking about marrying you,” Bard confesses.

    Thranduil chuckles, his chest humming against Bard’s. “What do you want to marry me for?” he titters.

    “I don’t know. It just feels like the right thing to do.”

    Thranduil says nothing, but Bard does not expect him to. It’s not a proposal of any kind. Bard is nothing if not traditional, or at the very least polite. He won’t ask now, not even if it feels right. He won’t do anything unless it’s with Thranduil. That’s how they are, it seems. They do not chase; they run together.

    “Maybe one day we will,” Thranduil finally says. “But now isn’t really the time to be planning a wedding.”

    Bard smirks at this, for Thranduil is right. The school year is nearly upon them. There is still much to organise for the dorms and the classes and the new teachers and students. And, in every way, it is enough. It isn’t marriage, but it’s theirs.

    It has all come down to this, Bard realises. The clock they chose together on the mantel in the sitting room and the groove in the mattress where their bodies fit side by side. This is where they live for now, or for always, it doesn’t really matter. It is home; a type of heaven where the stars aren’t in the sky, but in Bard’s eyes when he kisses Thranduil. Stars in the night time and in the day time too. This is the sum of everything they have been through, and it is good. All the children are under one roof and Thranduil’s favourite jam is next to the jar where Bard has always kept biscuits. A totality. A new adventure for Bard to wake up to every day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, I could probably use up all 5000 characters of this end-note space to talk about how much this fic means to me and how much it has changed me as a writer, but you guys aren't about that life. If you are, you can message me on [tumblr](http://trashelves.tumblr.com) where I will promptly cry, as some people have already witnessed. I will also reply to all the comments on this chapter, since it's the last and I want to thank everyone personally.  
> There are some epilogue tid-bits that I wanted to share as well:  
> I desperately would have loved Tauriel and Sigrid to date years and years later when Sigrid is older and Kili is no longer in the picture (soz dude).  
> Bain does in fact become a teacher.  
> Thranduil isn't the headmaster of the school, he just owns and runs it as an independent establishment. Bard and Thranduil's house isn't actually spoken of to the students, so they basically live in peaceful seclusion near the woods.  
> The goat is very popular.  
> A few years after the school is opened, Thranduil uses an electric wheelchair more and more often until it's permanent. This does not stop him dancing on good days, however. And he can be see whizzing around the corridors of the school and sneaking up on children in the library.  
> Bard's back is never the same.  
> The song they dance to in the sitting room is 'O Children' by Nick Cave and the Bad Seeds as I'm currently obsessed with it.  
> And I suppose the rest is up to your interpretation! I have all my own headcanons, of course, but I won't spoil it for you all by telling you what's right and what's wrong, as this is your story as much as it's mine. I want to thank you all for reading, commenting, sharing and enjoying this fic. It was a real journey for me and I'm a bit sad that it's over.  
> On that note, actually, I say it's over but... well... there's still lots to be written. Adventures to be had. I won't write a sequel, but keep an eye out for one-shot's, as they will definitely make an appearance in the near future. Until then, thank you!  
> AND, before you get entirely sick of me, this work, in all it's 9 month, 93K glory, is dedicated to [Sammy](http://punkwillow.tumblr.com) and [Bérénice](http://breathingbarduil.tumblr.com).


End file.
